

BLOOD DIAMONDS CONSPIRACY

A Political Thriller

By

Yvonne Crowe

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

© Yvonne Crowe 2013

Yvonne Crowe has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

ISBN 978-0-473-25253-3

This book may not be reproduced in any form without the written consent of the author.

This book is dedicated to my good friends Layla Saleh and Mohammed Hardan, two of the warmest and courageous hearts I have been privileged to meet. Their genuine gratitude and enthusiasm for their new homeland never ceases to inspire me.

I would also like to acknowledge the encouragement I received from Roger J Ellory despite his own busy schedule at the time of the launch of another highly successful novel. It was more than I ever expected.

"Man's inhumanity to man is not only perpetrated by the vitriolic actions of those that are bad. It is also perpetrated by the vitiating actions of those that are good –

Dr Martin Luther King.

The worst sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them. That's the essence of inhumanity – George Bernard Shaw.

The people who make wars, the people who reduce their fellows to slavery, the people who kill and torture and tell lies in the names of their sacred causes, the really evil people, in a word – these are never the publicans and the sinners. No, They're the virtuous respectable men, who have the finest feelings, the best brains, the noblest ideals – Aldous Huxley, After many a summer.

But diamonds are a girl's best friend – Sang Marilyn Monroe from George Gershwin's play Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.

Prologue – Sierra Leone 2001

Night time stole across the land like a thief, robbing it of the light, bringing with it fear. No less fear than in the daylight hours, no less fear of reprisals, fear of life, fear of death, fear for her children, fear of fear.

Little more than a child herself, Mardea looks with sorrow upon her four children. All were starving and ill. The eldest boy and girl suffered from AIDS, passed on to them from herself and the soldier who had raped her. The dead lay where they fell as most of the villagers were too ill to remove them. Water, which had to be carried for miles, was polluted with the dead.

The middle son was racked with fever that made him sweat and had turned yellow, as the village lacked even the very basic tenets of hygiene. They all had dysentery, as did she herself. The baby was starving, as was the entire village. She has no milk for the child and there were no clinics to treat them for any of their ills.

"Quiet, quiet," she anxiously hushes the children. "Quiet or Mwabe will hear you and steal away your souls."

Their souls have been stolen by the greed of an elite network of political, military and commercial interests seeking to maintain its grip on the main mineral resources, diamonds, cobalt, copper, germanium found in the Government-controlled area. This network has transferred ownership of billions of dollars of assets from the State mining sector to private companies under its control, with no compensation or benefit for the State treasury.

Mardea and her four children are doomed. They are at death's door and no-one cares. There is a lack of political will governing the situation in Sierra Leone. No-one hears their pitiful cries and Mardea wonders why she was born into this life of misery and pain. It is beyond her comprehension that the destabilisation of her country is essential to the elite network's goals and is helped by great powers from the strong white countries far away.

Mardea is only seventeen years old.

Her crime was to be born in an area surrounding lucrative diamond mines. To be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Mardea's husband Tomah had been kidnapped and taken to the diamond mines twenty miles from the shanty town they live in. The rebel army had driven everyone away from the village, but she had been too ill to take her children and leave. By some miracle, they had left her alone, probably because they knew soon she and her children would be dead. She could not gather crops for them to eat, and even if she had been able to, the rebels had burned most of the villagers" homes and crops.

Without Tomah she was helpless.

Mardea is very lonely and very frightened. Her parents are dead of starvation, malaria and dysentery. No-one cares. Her brothers and sisters are dead or ill. Mardea is one of the living ghosts existing in the ghost town. She has never known security, laughter, a full belly, the life of a normal child. These are irrelevant to the greedy.

What had she done to offend the Gods, or even the Christian God she had tried her best to embrace and understand. The missionaries had told her he was far kinder than Mwabe and that he loved her" So far, she had not seen much evidence of that. Her tired soul could find no rationalisation for her miserable life. "Suffer the little children to come unto me," she had been told. Well she had tried to get to him, but he did not seem to listen or care and she had endured more suffering than one human being should have to. What kind of God could design such a world?

Although it is dangerous outside and she is very ill, Mardea drags her disease ridden and aching body outside the stinking mud hut in which they exist. She is too ill to clean it anymore. Just a little peace from the crying and misery of her children is all she craves. A little peace for herself. The silvery moon shines across the land and she can hear the weak howling of starving dogs. High above a carpet of stars glitters in the firmament shone brightly when the clouds parted for one minute and she wonders at such beauty, recalling stories told about the diamonds Tomah now mined. Tales were told that the diamonds were taken far away to white man's lands, glittering like those stars.

"What are these diamonds? Why would they want them?" she wondered. "They are just dull pieces of glass. Stories tell of how the white man, cuts and polishes them and they shine brighter than the stars in the heavens above. If you could hold one of those stars in your hand, could you eat it, could it keep you cool or warm, could it cure you from your pain and suffering? Why were there so many deaths because of them?"

Uneducated as she is, she has no idea what diamonds mean to the rest of the world. Her parched, fever ridden body felt the cool night air and for the merest fraction of a second she found relief. Suddenly she doubles over and her body heaves. There is nothing to come up, just more racking pain and fever.

Dimly through her pain, she hears whispering and footfalls, but they pass her by as she is no threat. Dimly, through her fear, she hears the rumble of vehicles and is afraid. They pass through the village and in the day light hours, one runs and hides from them for they bring danger. Now she can no longer run, so she keeps the children and herself indoors in the vile stink of the hut. She can no longer venture out to forage for any scraps of food or water and so they await the peace of death. Life is too painful to want to grasp and hold on to.

*

Tomah did the best he could. Some days it was simply not good enough for the mean spirited bosses and he would be beaten, but not enough that he could not work.

The conditions he worked under were appalling and it horrified him that alongside him were small children who had been abducted from their villages to be used as slave labor.

If the workers were maimed in mine accidents, they were discarded, or shot. Health and safety standards simply did not exist.

Many of the workers had eye strain, headaches and respiratory problems. They all suffered from malnutrition, as the rebels fed them only two meals a day. Maize porridge in the morning and for the evening meal it was mixed with boiled leafy vegetables and beans. They cooked it themselves in old paint cans and ate it outside. Tomah did not think it was enough with the hard work he did and he was always hungry. There was nowhere to pee, so they simply went where they could.

When they were working, they were forced to relieve themselves where they stood. The stench was disgusting.

Malaria, dysentery and cholera carried others off from the unsanitary conditions they lived under. Kidnapped young girls were provided as camp prostitutes and this spread sexual disease amongst the men.

Life was impossible in Sierra Leone. He had voted for the Prime Minister, who had been educated far away in England and had promised the people their lives would be better when he took over, but they were yet to see it. In fact, life had become even harsher. People lived in terror of reprisals from the rebel army. But it was the only life he knew.

The rebel leader had also told them life would be better when he took over the government. Maybe for himself, but the people of Sierra Leone had not seen any change for themselves. The Junta had not run the country well and now President Kabbah had been reinstated. So, the Revolutionary United Front was again waging war against the government. It was all too much for Tomah, his tired body and mind could not cope with any more.

He looked around him; at the bleak landscape of the place he worked and lived in. The mine was a small scale mining operation owned by some military men. Open pits scarred the area, mostly dug by the slave labor. However, one mechanized drilling rig reared above the land like a giant stick insect. Drilling went on day and night with the ever present incessant noise. So exhausted were the workers, collapsing into sleep where they fell, that even the noise of the drilling could not wake them. A rifle butt slammed into their body was signal enough though. Its message was clear. If you cannot get up and work, prepare to die.

His job was to collect the ore after the dynamite had blasted off the rock, and carry it in sacks on his back out of the narrow, small mine shafts and carry it up to the processing plant, which

was little more than a shed. It was very hard and dirty work. His lungs, nose and eyes were always filled with the dust from the blasting. Although the overseer gave them medicine for the coughing, it did not seem to help much. He saw the little kids coughing and trying to get air and felt so bad for them.

Small children, aged 10-12 years old worked alongside him, their small frames able to easily squeeze into the narrow shafts. All abducted from their families and villages. Torches were strapped to their foreheads to give light, as they picked at the rock with a hammer and chisel. Daily they risked injury from falls or dust and pollution. Most of them suffered with chest pains and could not breathe well. Others worked on the surface, sifting the dirt backwards and forwards in large frames, to find any of the gemstones that might be lurking there.

The workers bonded together as best they could, to try and survive. Some of his friends from the village worked alongside him. Others who had been rounded up with him, worked in the sluicing area, dragging the pits filled with water, to bring up the gravel, often submerging themselves totally under the filthy water. The bodies were always wet and most of them were covered in terrible sores now.

There were cuts on his hands and the skin was raw and broken, as he was not given boots or gloves, nor were any of the other workers.

He sighed despairingly. How he missed his little family and how he worried about them. Troops had come and dragged him away to work at the mine two years ago when he was seventeen years old.

The miners slept often in the open on reed mats, or under ramshackle tarpaulins. If it was wet, they sometimes slept in the mines. Tomah did not like sleeping in the mines, as he did not feel well afterwards.

Tomah knew that the water he drank from a nearby stream without boiling it, was not good for him, and it tasted bad. What he did not know was that masses of mine waste, much of it graphite, that contains silica was everywhere, blown about by the wind. Sharp particles from recently broken silica will severely damage both the miners' lungs and immune systems.

He had left his wife Mardea behind in the shanty town and knew nothing of her fate or their children. There were too many people sick, with not enough food and no medicine.

This was reserved for the leader and his friends. Everyone knew they lived a life of luxury, even going off to faraway places to learn to read and for holidays, a concept most Sierra Leoneans could not comprehend.

Tomah was not from the same tribe as the leader, so he was forbidden to be a soldier, or allowed to go to school, nor were his children. He would never be able to have a nice home and he missed his family very much.

Tomah was exhausted, he had worked hard all year from dusk to dawn, without any rest periods.

He was worried sick about his family and had to escape from the mine. Although they were worked day and night, becoming so weary, that the thought of escape was the furthermost thing from their minds. Tomah knew he was near death and was determined to die with his family. His body was covered in sores and he grew weaker every day. He knew the end was near. If he did not escape now while he had a little strength, he would be left where he dropped, or shot.

What little strength and determination remained would get him back to the village. He had heard reports of awful atrocities being committed. He was terrified what he would find when he returned, but he had to try.

Tomah would not abandon his plan, despite being constantly scrutinized. Waiting for a moonless night, when he was finally given a rest period, he made his move. Only one guard was posted to the sleeping men, as they were so exhausted, they dropped as soon as they entered the ramshackle tarpaulin coverings or in the open if they could not make it that far.

He knew he had a better chance if he slept under cover. Any others that were sleeping there would be so exhausted they would not feel him rise and steal away. Somehow, from somewhere deep inside him, he dragged up what little reserves of strength remained and stole out of the tarpaulin, which was open on all sides.

Darkness became Tomah's friend as he skirted the mine and made a dash for the sketchy bush surrounding it. Fear froze his heart, but he would not let it freeze his limbs. Breathless, he silently waited; until he was sure the alarm had not been raised. Cautiously peering ahead of him, he could see only darkness and silence.

Heart pounding, his mind fogged with weariness, he stumbled along, his determination to die with his family was the only thing that kept him going....and going....and going.

For a healthy man it was merely a two or three hour walk, but for an unhealthy Tomah, it was an exhausting struggle during which he had to take constant rest periods of five or ten minutes, until he regained a little strength. Thankfully the night remained quiet. Most of the villagers had been driven away and those unfortunate souls that remained were unable to leave.

On and on he trudged through well known jungle trails, praying to Mwabe that he would not come across a rebel patrol. He had no way of knowing how long it was taking, but dawn was barely breaking when he came to the familiar place of his birth.

As he skirted around the thorn bushes dotted about on his journey home, he could see no cooling trees to attract the animals. Only humans were brought to this godforsaken place.

*

The truck, filled with the child soldiers, carrying AK 47 rifles, comes closer. Gardiah is a soldier. He has been a child soldier since he was ten years of age, when he was abducted from his village. Since then, he had trained hard, killed many people and now he was a well seasoned warrior. His contingent was proud of him, a man at fifteen years of age.

His name meant new man and he was doing his best to live up to this. No-one had bothered to tell Gardiah that his life expectancy wasn't great, but as a warrior he instinctively understood these things. After all, it was better than starving in the village. He had his pick of the women in the villages they went through and if he left his seed behind, it only made him feel more of a man.

Of course he had fought fiercely for the troop leader. Strong and brave, he was from the same tribe as the leader, who needed soldiers like him.

At first, when they had been taken from their families, they had cried and been afraid. The troop leader gave them cocaine to make them strong and crazy so they feared no one and nothing. They were beaten until they submitted their wills to the leader and threatened with death if they did not carry out his instructions.

In the beginning, they had been handed guns which often misfired, fighting in the clothes they stood up in until they proved themselves; or survived long enough. Now they had sharp camouflage uniforms and the guns were quite a bit better. They were guerrillas and moved around shooting those that made trouble.

"Foreigners." He spat on the ground. "They are animals. Do not deserve to live. "The truck bounced over the potholes and the soldiers were jostled against each other. To while away the time, they passed the bottle of cheap whisky amongst themselves as they told stories of their bravery or brutality, depending on how you looked at it.

"Do you know how many hands and feet I chopped off in the last village," boasted his thirteen year old friend Gartee? "I told those pigs. Now you cannot vote in the elections."

The RUF had started cutting the hands off civilians as a symbolic way to prevent them voting. "Now you will be unable to vote for anyone again." They were told as the slaughter continued.

"I picked up the hands and feet that had been chopped off by our machetes and placed them on the tree trunks and logs to remind them of how powerful we are and how weak they are." A small fist pounded on his chest in an act of defiance.

"And how many heads I chopped off?" Garmuyu threw back his head and brayed.

"Hahaha." One of Gardiah's young colleagues found this uproariously funny. "I chopped off penises. Now, they won't make any more babies."

Gardiah felt a little twinge of regret, but soon pushed it away. The blood lust was in them. They had been fed cocaine for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sometimes the troop leader injected them.

He looked at the cuts on his arms, where the cocaine had been rubbed in and mixed with his blood, to make him crazy. Sometimes it was difficult to realize it was actually himself who was doing this. And sometimes his bad deeds came back to haunt him in the night. Aieee. Mwabe came and demanded more blood, to feed his hungry soul.

It was their job to keep these animals down. If this meant killing a few people, that was their duty. Hell, he was doing those kids a favor who were starving or had stood on landmines. What did they have to look forward to?

"Perhaps." A thought fluttered in what was left of his mind. "One day he would marry and have children of his own." Then he shook his head. "Life was dangerous and exciting so maybe he would just stay as he was. Taking what he wanted, when he wanted it, how he wanted it and sometimes no-one left to tell the tale.

"What about those girls and women we raped in the last village eh?" A child of 11 laughed hysterically, eyes crazily rolling around in his sockets.

"I raped a pregnant one. Hope it killed her brat." This from a 13 year old, who could not stand straight, so doped and drunk, was he. "I raped her in front of her mother and father, and then I raped her sisters." He pounded on his chest, like the alpha male he felt himself to be.

Gardiah felt that odd twinge again. What the hell was it? Couldn't be his conscience, as he had parked that on the last tree trunk with the arms and legs of victims, hadn't he? Soldiers didn't bother with consciences. Children as young as six years old had been raped by them repeatedly.

The troop drove along, getting drunker and the wildness rising higher in them. Just like Pappy Sankoh wanted. How sad they had been when he had died three years ago.

Suddenly, one of the soldiers grabbed his rifle and began shooting.

"Hey watch it." Gardiah yelled out as the truck swerved wildly. The shots were pretty wild. "Why don't you wait until we get to the next town and you can take potshots at whatever you want? We don't want you hitting any of us."

"May dogs lick your eyes." The shooter responded by shooting through the canvas roof of the truck whilst the rest of them roared with laughter. That seemed to mollify him and he suddenly pitched forward dead drunk, passing out on the floor of the truck.

"Make sure the fucker doesn't fall out of the damn thing." One of them yelled.

Pitching and rolling they continued along the atrocious road, raising the inevitable dust storm in their wake. It was too dangerous to stand up at the back to vomit, so they just puked in the truck. There was a total lack of discipline amongst these troops and the troop leader was in the front of the cab, quite happy for his troops to let off steam. They would need it before the next massacre that was planned in a few days time. There were a few rabble insurgents to be put down again.

"I need to pee." One of them called out.

"Well pee on the floor." Another drunken soldier suggested, so the first soldier did just that while the rest of them laughed uproariously, finding it all hilarious.

"I need to crap." Another announced.

"Oh come on, we're not having that in the truck." Gardiah banged on the top of the cab and when the hatch slid open between the cab and the truck he told the troop leader.

"Hang on a minute." The driver told them. "There's a town coming up. You can hop down there and crap, while we see if there is any sport or whiskey to be had."

Gardiah peered out through the windscreen. What was that on the road? Small and still. It looked like a person. A person? The driver slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt, showing off his driving prowess, Gardiah stood up, hopped out and ran to the front of the truck.

Some stupid woman. Skinny bitch. He kicked her in the ribs. She did not move. He kicked her in the head. Still she did not move. Mardea's body twitched as the bullet Gardiah shot from his rifle went through her body.

"Target practice." The others called and let off a round which found its mark, striking her again and again.

One spies her, laughs and raising his rifle fires, the bullet finding her brain, putting her out of her misery and pain. Oblivion wrapped her in its warm, welcome embrace and her tortured soul let go of its tenuous link to the earth and soared up to the glitter of the stars. When her children cry out, even their mother will not be there to help them and they will die alone, terror stricken and miserable, leaving no mark on the world of their fleeting presence. Mardea gladly released her soul to the white god in that placed called heaven.

Gardiah sighted again, took aim and fired once more.

*

Tomah had heard the soldiers and found a place to hide. What were they shooting at? Daringly he peeked out.

Something small and still lay outside his hut. It looked like a person. A familiar person. Surely it could not be? Tomah threw all caution to the winds and stood up. Dragging himself along, he ran to the figure that lay so still, oblivious to his own safety. "Mardea?" he cried out, as a shot rang out. Mardea's body twitched as the bullet went into her.

"Mardea." He called out again, as other shots rang out and found their mark, striking her again and again.

"Mardea." Tears pouring down his face, he dragged his exhausted body so he could reach her. Holding her tightly as Gardiah sighted again, took aim and fired. The bullet went through Tomah's head. Again, Gardiah shot from the hip, just to see if he could finish off the foolish man. The bullets raked the body and Gardiah called out.

"I am lord of the world. I have power over life and death. See me Mwabe."

Now the sick and starving children truly had no-one to hear their pitiful cries.

The baby wailed as he was hungry.

"Let's have a look inside."

"God, it stinks."

The children were terrified and holding their breath. One of the soldiers went over and kicked a bundle that cried and retched.

"Huh, sick kids." He grunted, brought up his rifle and shot the eldest son. Bedlam broke out as the children screamed and cried.

"Put them out of their misery. That must be their mother out there." Another gestured outside, brought his gun up and raked the children. Silence fell.

"Looks like sickness here. I'm not interested in any of the women. Let's go on."

The rest grunted their assent. "They're lucky. We could have cut off their hands and feet like the last village, and then they wouldn't have been able to work and would have starved." Laughing hysterically as the cocaine and amphetamines that were racing through their warrior blood helped them carry out their murderous tasks. Their minds were completely numbed to the horrors they left behind them.

Sport over, the soldiers clambered back onto the truck, which pulled out of the shanty town leaving its legacy of death behind. No-one crept out of the shacks to see and the stars above wearily watched again, man's inhumanity to man.

Chapter 1 – Manhattan New York April 2006

Colette bolted upright in bed, shivering with cold, heart beating madly. Wildly she cast her gaze around the apartment, confused and disoriented.

Where was she? Slowly she began to recognize the familiar contours of the bedroom and its contents. Her heart rate began to slow and the shivering ceased.

Realizing she was safe in her own apartment in New York, she scrambled out of bed, put on a silk dressing gown and padded into the kitchen to switch on the electric kettle. "I have to get over this," she scolded herself. "I have to move on."

As she reached up for the tea caddy on the shelves built between the glass fronted kitchen cabinets, she mulled over the failure of her marriage.

The kettle clicked off, signaling it was ready for her to make the wonderful Waldfrucht tee (Forest fruit tea) she had picked up in Germany and liked so much. Spooning the required amount into the glass teapot, she waited for a minute then poured it into the cup she had taken out of the cupboard.

Slowly she made her way back to the bedroom and placing the cup of tea on the bedside cabinet, piled three large European pillows to lean back on, settled back into bed and pulled the covers up. Sipping the tea whilst again taking in the familiar surroundings, her mind drifted to the recent past.

Basil, her husband. Now separated, she gloomily reflected on their life together, her frustration and anger building as painful memories crawled out from the deep recesses of her mind where she had hidden them, and overwhelmed her. No more sleep tonight.

Black, black, black. Goddamn his black heart and miserable soul. Basil was twenty three years older than her, with finely chiseled patrician English features. Tall and slim, with a laconic air, the epitome of the English private merchant banker, which indeed he was. Dark gray eyes that in two seconds could change from warm to direct a glance upon you as cold as the winter winds blowing across Lake Michigan. How the hell did he do that?

His first wife had thrown off the earthly shackles four years earlier and Basil immediately sought the obligatory younger trophy wife. Most of his colleagues had simply unshackled the original wife, without waiting for them to pass on. Just passed over.

After meeting at a gallery showing, they took their time over a pleasant twelve month courtship, during which he had treated her with consideration and gallantry. Her family approved, but many of her friends expressed concern at the different in their ages as well as their chosen careers.

Once the knot was tied, he showed his hand and tightened his grip. As time and the marriage went by, he went into overdrive and she found herself living with a completely different person, who tried to suck the life out of her. Slowly they drew further away from each other.

Insanely jealous, possessive, needy, dependent upon women, as most boardroom bullies are. A control freak who tried to take over her life and every breath. Colette was a successful author and this was anathema. Creative death by osmosis.

His business relationships were appalling. Driven to be top of the totem pole, he had no compunction in climbing over the dead (or live) bodies in his quest for more power and riches. The poor relation in an aristocratic family, he was bitter with a world that should have done better by him. A product of his years in the public schools of the British class system, the man was driven by his own insecurities and fears. To counter this, the obligatory testosterone machine, his British Jaguar XJ6 was brought out for excursions to the country when he was not using the Bank's limousine.

Basil craved recognition and desperately wanted to be part of the Old Boy Network, if not New York society. Tolerated for his somewhat tarnished aristocratic background, and his usefulness as a Merchant banker to the very rich, he merely hovered on the fringes. Not admitted to the inner circle which was reserved for major royalty, not minor aristocracy and it irked him no end.

"Jesus," He had fumed to Colette. "My lineage would leave theirs for dead. It goes back to William the Conqueror, a Norman who soon saw off the Saxons."

"So what if these snobbish New Yorkers can trace their roots to some bloody old Quakers who arrived on a leaky old tub and landed on this island because British royalty didn't want a bar of them."

Ah New York Society, such an unforgiving and cruel system. Reminiscent of the Euro trash of Europe and Britain.

"I've got a game plan that will have them begging for me," he had told Colette.

From his furtiveness about business trips in Europe, her well tuned ear suspected something that hinted at the darker side of life. However, he would not be drawn out about his activities, hiding his covert dealings behind the need for secrecy in his chosen career.

Image – Status – Basil's Holy Grail.

Oh yes, he knew his way around tax shelters and the English merchant bank in which he was a partner, had branches in the right places. Registered dummy companies sitting on high shelves, looking down from a lofty height, were dusted off to be used for the benefit of tax evasion and money laundering. Too bad if the poor benighted middle class paid their taxes under fear of imprisonment, struggling to prop up their country's infrastructure whilst the wealthy employed financiers such as Basil and Ambrose to ensure tax shelters protected them from losing any of theirs. Some ill-gotten gains that went right back to the robber barons of old, whose descendants had washed themselves clean by entering legitimate business, just as the children of the American Mafia dons had done. Without the burden of taxation however.

As the burden was too great for the middle classes to sustain, social services and infrastructure were eroding. The rich got richer and the divide grew wider.

Chapter 2 – Monte Carlo 2005

Prudence demanded that the Cartel met in Monte Carlo, rather than Tel Aviv. This pleased Basil, as it would give him a chance to play baccarat at the fabled Casino. If everything went as expected, he would realize his greatest desire, to become one of the regulars.

Seated around the table, each member of the unholy alliance trusted each other not one iota.

Ira Lemontov, the dapper little Russian Jew who looked like everyone's idea of a fatherly rabbi. The life of luxury agreed with him and had padded out his once lean figure. However, one look into his eyes and Ira's true nature was reflected very clearly. Not a man to be trifled with.

When Ira was conscripted for compulsory military training on behalf of his country in the late 1970's, he had spent it as a brown beret in the elite Golani Brigade. The famous infantry brigade was formed under David Ben-Gurion in February 1948. Its 1st Mechanized Brigade is one of Israel's original fighting units. One of his missions was to train the military of an African country. It was one small step for Ira to realize there was a huge and vastly profitable industry secretly at work, supplying these nations with illicit arms. This whetted his appetite no end.

After serving out his two years of active service, he liked the rush living on the edge of danger gave him, but knew he did not want to choose this as a career, as it would not open the doors to the riches he sought. Searching around for a way to combine his experience with his desires, he spent some time as a mercenary in Africa to learn all he could about the illegal trafficking of weapons.

It was not long before he uncovered the profits to be made from the illicit smuggling of diamonds. Surviving the ravages of internecine wars, for which he was very well paid, he made contacts in Zimbabwe and Sierra Leone to pave the way for his ambitions.

Breaking international embargoes on illicit arms trafficking requires more than individual effort. To move illicit cargo around the world without raising suspicion and overcome any obstacles, it takes an internationally organized network of individuals, well funded, well connected and well versed in brokering and logistics. Ira was small peanuts until Ami sought him out.

Now, he lived very well indeed in Israel. Personally meeting with the sellers, purchasing and organizing the smuggling of rough diamonds out of Zimbabwe, Liberia and Sierra Leone. Greedy outstretched palms, well greased to ensure easy entry into Antwerp where they were cut and polished, then on to Tel Aviv, to merge with legitimate gems and disposed of.

Amichai (Ami). His name means my people is alive, my nation survived. This was his father's gift to him, naming his son for all the heroes who had fought for the State of Israel. As dedicated as his father, he followed in his footsteps by working in secret intelligence. Where his father had worked for Likud which had evolved from the Irgun, Ami belonged to the Metsada unit, reputed to be answerable directly to the head of Mossad, the Israeli secret intelligence service, which has always prided itself on weaving a cloak of impenetrable secrecy around its covert operations.

When Ami was not carrying out secret missions for Metsada, he and Ira were joined at the hip. Ami saw that Ira was well protected, as Mossad had much to gain from the trafficking of the diamonds. An unending, ongoing war was an expensive business.

They differed not at all from most of the intelligence agencies in other countries. They are unable to ask their governments to overtly fund covert operations that fit into their political agenda, so they must find other ways and means. Complicit in drug smuggling, arms trafficking, diamond, oil and other mineral wealth resources from South American and African nations were a given. The politicos' hands remained unstained with the blood from dirty untraceable money as they caused mayhem around the world. Destabilizing, repressing, funding rebel armies that terrorize and control the population.

A charming, handsome, charismatic man now 40 years of age, he moved around the globe at the agency's bidding. Although women were drawn to his strength and ruthlessness, an attractive combination, Ami was already dedicated to an extremely demanding mistress. His country's ideology.

Arkadiy, the representative of the Russian Oligarch arms merchant who was gobbling up the state owned enterprises as fast as he could and diversifying into the west. Arkadiy was helping himself to the stockpiles of Russia's defunct military hardware for him. Still the lethal KGB enforcer, despite the veneer of respectability cloaked over his natural inclinations, Arkadiy was not a man to trifle with lightly.

Over 6 ft tall, and a rival for Amichan in the looks department. Extremely handsome in the intense dark way of his ancestors, the Cossacks, he was highly intelligent and a killer with the women.

Arrogant, with a short fuse, he had joined military counter-intelligence, then been posted to a not so pleasant sojourn at the Lubyanka, which had provided him with invaluable contacts and the desired leg up the ladder. From there to the private sector had been a snip.

Basil Mortimer, the banker. The most recent addition, due to the untimely demise of the previous incumbent twelve months ago, he reveled in the intrigue. Influential power that other men could only dream about. The epitome of the aristocratic Banking Establishment that enabled the Cartel to distance itself from further Jewish involvement, he was still proving himself. Slim, suave and toxic.

His role was to launder all the money through various shell companies that had been set up in Jersey or the Isle of Man. Back to Russia for nefarious deeds; and Tel Aviv for covert purposes.

Reuven Har-Zahav, the Cartel's accountant, who kept a very low profile during the meetings. Financial discussions took place with Ira and Ami outside the meetings. His presence was required to keep him up with the state of play. Where the share of the profits to Mossad and Ira went, was of no-one else's concern. He was a shrewd man with a high intelligence quotient and oversaw the distribution of the share of profits between the members. His background is not important.

Everyone performed their own dirty little function in this web, whose deliberate complexity made it impossible to track and trace its true purpose.

Lemontov chaired the meeting.

"We've moved $350,000,000 worth of goods this year," he announced proudly. However many of the cosy internecine wars in the sub-Saharan continent were drawing to an end, causing some concern.

Everyone's eyes lit up with glee. That figure made them very important indeed in the world of diamond trading. Ira gleaned great satisfaction from being the Man with the Golden Touch. He met with the sellers and determined their needs, accepted the diamonds in payment and arranged delivery.

The rough stones were inspected in Zimbabwe, Angola, Liberia and Sierra Leone. Small quantities were packed in soda cans or thermos flasks with false bottoms, their size making it so easy to hide them in almost anything. Another favorite ruse was to hide them amongst toys in false-bottomed suitcases. Those that Ira did not bring out personally would be entrusted to mules who would then fly back to Turkey and from there to Belgium or Tel Aviv. Easy access through customs. Palms greased. Everyone was on the take.

Larger quantities went by ship.

"Are they safe in the hands of mules?" Basil had queried when he first joined the group twelve months previously. "Have you ever lost any? Stolen by them?"

Lemontov had thrown Basil a look of disgust at such an obviously stupid question. "Would you rob us if you were the mules?" he asked sarcastically.

Basil had looked suitably abashed, as he considered the rather unpleasant consequences for the unfortunates that might even consider such an action. Well aware of what happened to the workers in the mines if they were discovered trying to steal the diamonds by concealing them inside their bodies, he shuddered at the consequences. Death was still a great deterrent, even though these people lived and worked under the most horrific conditions.

"I use Hasidic Jews," Ira continued. "They are true believers who have found their way to the Promised Land. Many of them were freed in the Jews for wheat deal that America made with Russia." Ira told him. "They are anxious to be of service to Ersatz Israel and are paid very well for the risks they take. One per cent of the rough stones help set up a Russian Jew in Israel, or Antwerp."

Many Russian Jews had found their way to Israel when Russia was forced to release them during a famine. This bargaining for the lives of his race, still had the power to bring out a white hot rage in Ira. "Damn these old oppressive regimes." Showing his true feelings in private, to the one man he could trust to share them without being exposed to ridicule, he had bitterly exclaimed. "Will the Jews ever be free of being used as pawns Amicham?"

This from a man who normally kept his emotions under control, as his own welfare came first and foremost before any other.

Basil had shaken his head in bewilderment when he thought of the trust required for a person to carry the tiny gemstones. So easy to slip one or two out and keep for themselves. "Christ, the risks still seem very high to me."

"Because you are an ignorant, supercilious man, who has never bothered to understand the background of the Jewish people." Ira did not bother to hide his aversion to Basil. He waved his hand at him, as though to brush away an annoying fly. "After centuries of persecution, do you think Hasidic Jews would betray Ersatz Israel?" Ira contemptuously responded, as though to an ignorant child. "Of course the risks are high, so are the rewards. Risks are a way of life to Jews. Have been for centuries. I am accustomed to taking risks and anyone who crosses me does so at their peril." His cold flat eyes had raked Basil who had flinched under his gaze.

Prudence dictated Basil retreat for now.

"I will continue if I may," Ira arrogantly put Basil in his place. "You do not understand the Jewish culture and our total commitment to the land that has been returned to us. Sacred land that our forefathers owned and we were driven from centuries before."

"With the trend of global financial deregulation and new Israeli legislation aimed at easing the movement of capital, we assisted mass Jewish immigration from Russia in the late 1980's. Our country's banking system encouraged aliyah, (the immigration of Jews and their accompanying capital). As they were mainly penniless, being unable to realise any of their assets in Russia, we provided capital in the form of diamonds and then set them up in a new life. They are grateful we freed them from a life of misery in Russia and if necessary they are willing to die for Israel. We assist immigrants also from Iran and Syria. The majority of them are religious Jews," and here he shrugged nonchalantly, "so we are able to launder the proceeds through Jewish religious institutions, such as yeshivas and synagogues. We arrange the Belgian passports the travel on and provide papers so they appear to work for a large, well-known, seemingly legitimate diamond firm in Antwerp or Tel Aviv."

Looking like the cat that ate the cream, Ira deigned to educate Basil further. "We can also take out the small hauls by airplane direct. Larger quantities, about two to five hundred stones are packed in cargoes such as cotton threads, and then moved by boat. The cargo is not opened at customs, we see to that. Sometimes we bring them out with former Israeli Air Force pilots who are training the African military."

Basil's mind had boggled at the sheer enormity and complexity of this part of the operation alone. After all the Diamond Council was attempting to put restrictions on conflict diamonds, but this didn't appear to phase Lemontov one iota.

"Why should it?" he mentally shrugged. "He has powerful government allies on his side."

Now his eyes gleamed at the thought of the hi-level connections it would take, to make this possible. No doubt about it, he was in elite company here. "If only my enemies could see me now. Part of this powerful group. I'll show them." The thought bolstered his fragile ego which required constant stroking.

"Once the diamonds reach Antwerp or Tel Aviv, we sell them. In the diamond cutting shops the rough diamonds are sliced and burnished into finished gems." Ira kept to himself that he was owner of one of the largest companies involved in this lucrative service to the industry in Antwerp. He exchanged a knowing glance with Ami, who was privy to the secret, as Mossad had again been instrumental in funding him.

"They are then sold to a dealer, who mixes them with legitimate diamonds, and poof, they vanish into the legal trade."

Basil had looked around the room. Without exception they all looked smug and satisfied.

"Then your role." Lemontov had waved his hand imperiously as Basil. "You ensure the money is washed through your connections in the Channel Islands or the Isle of Man, which are far safer than the banana republics."

"The Russians' share goes to them to purchase arms they sell to the country of origin or elsewhere. It's just business." Ira shrugged his shoulders to indicate he did not care who received them.

Basil had not needed much persuasion and returned from his reflections to the present.

"We have made it perfectly clear, there is to be no selling to both sides in a conflict." Ira reminded Arkadiy of the warning he had been given. "All we have behind us is our reputation. If our customers cannot trust us, they will not give us repeat business. We rely on this."

"And make sure," Ami interjected, "that you never sell to a group that will turn our weapons on white people, or it will lead to investigations. They can kill as many brown people in the world, including in the Middle East, but impress upon your buyers their discretion is required." Given the very nature of the cartel's customers, he knew they walked a fine line. This behaviour had recently contributed to another arms merchant's downfall.

"My share returns to me. All very simple, efficient and effective." Ira continued as he chomped on a large unlit cigar, making Basil crave one of his own, preferably lit so he could puff away contentedly.

"And it goes without saying, you do not arm factions in the Middle East." Ami looked directly at Arkadiy Korshanenko.

Such a direct attack peeved the Russian off no end. Of course he and his Oligarch had provisioned the extremist militants in Islamic Jihad against Israel and all other comers. They did not use the pipeline the cartel used, and it was not for him to tell his master who he should arm. After all the man was a Russian Jew and if he chose to arm Palestinians, it was none of Arkadiy's business, as long as the shekels kept rolling in. Hadn't Mossad specifically chosen his master for their own uses?

"We're not happy with the time it has taken to clean the money before it arrives in our bank since you took over." Pissed off, Arkadiy turned his resentment on Basil, bringing the hapless banker back from his reminiscences. This was the first he had heard of it.

The Russian lent over the conference table with and glared at Basil in an endeavor to intimidate him.

Fat chance. Basil bristled with anger. He hadn't come this far to buckle under to a thug dressed in Armani. Unwisely he maliciously retaliated. "I've had no complaints from you or the group up to this point. Do you want to take over the job? Lose everything with your chaotic banking system."

An ancient reptilian look briefly flared in the Russian's eyes as he looked at Basil as though calculating whether to have him for dinner. Coldly he responded, "Don't cast aspersions about my country."

Basil had a reputation for not suffering fools gladly. It was unfortunate he did not show some restraint himself.

"Your economy is shit and your country is history." Leaning back he delivered the thrust with urbane British sanguinity.

"ВЫ – ДУРАК.- You are a fool." Arkadiy's face contorted with fury as he roared at him in Russian. Standing he walked around the table to confront Basil, he turned to Lemontov, the Russian Jew who lived in Tel Aviv and was thankful he did not reside in Russia as his ancestors had, Arkadiy continued in Russian as he knew Ira understood the language.

"если он продолжит вести себя так, я его прикончу – "If he continues to behave like that, I will finish him."  
Standing over Basil he pointed a finger and with a face reminiscent of the freezing Siberian Winter blowing over the Steppes and threatened, "You will listen to us. We have deadlines to meet. There are other arms merchants vying for the same goods as ourselves and we need to be first. Keep your mouth shut or I will shut it for you." Thumping his chest to make a point, he boasted, "don't think I can't."

When Basil's ego was in full flight, he tended to become quite tactless when dealing with an honest to God Russian Bear. Standing up to make eye contact with Arkadiy, he picked up the gauntlet thrown down by the other man. "Well good for you," he sneered challenging the angry Russian to continue the verbal duel. "Don't you ever threaten me again you Russian prick. Your asinine country went belly up trying to keep the heel of your boot on the neck of satellites that didn't want to be part of your cock up. Did you think there was a never ending stream of money that would keep pouring in to stuff into the cracks? Gorbachev was the first sensible leader you had since you assassinated the Russian royal family. He actually did you a huge favor."

Whilst Arkadiy was not about to deny this, nor was he about to let Basil have the last word. Men had been killed for less, but with Ira and Ami watching as the situation escalated out of control, that was out of the question. However, one dark night in an even darker alley, things could be arranged. No-one insulted Arkadiy Korshanenko and got away with it. "We have more wealth in Siberia than you can imagine." He snarled.

"Sure and you can't dig them out." Basil was not about to concede defeat.

"What has your pisspot country got?" Arkadiy rose to the bait. "Nothing. Mother of God, you parade your outmoded royalty for a few $$$. Where is your famous Empire now? You're the laughing stock of the world, as your PM hangs off America's coat tails, scrambling around for some TV airtime."

Basil did not have a rejoinder for Arkadiy's riposte. In fact, he was at a loss for words and that did not happen very often.

Satisfied he had stung the imperious Englishman with a reach like Muhammad Ali's, he could not resist one last insult. "I can buy and sell you ten times over, you British faggot."

Unfortunately it was a common Russian trait to cast aspersions on an enemy's sexual preferences. After all, a good Russian male's reputation was based on his ability to consume vast amounts of vodka and remain functioning, especially the performance of his cock.

Chapter 3 – The Cartel

The tension in the room was palpable and Ira decided it was time he stepped in and put an end to this.

Frowning in their direction, he was not about to sit still whilst two male bulls locked horns and goaded each other into battle on his turf.

"Enough," he commanded, making sure they understood he would brook no further infractions. "This behaviour will not be tolerated. Do you think you are both invincible? Well, you're wrong. In this business, someone is always watching closely to bring us down. If either of you draws attention to us or exposes us, retribution will be swift and sure." Pointedly he looked from one man to the other, his hard edged stare giving both men an unmistakable message.

"Your behaviour is contemptible. I never want to see another display like this. Too much depends on the group working as smoothly as a well oiled machine. I will not tolerate personality conflicts in this group. Sort this out immediately."

Ira would be the first to admit there was a certain satisfaction to be gleaned from the power he held over a member of a race that had persecuted Jewry for centuries, buy slaughtering or freezing them to death in the godforsaken icy vastness of Siberia. Not to mention the once arrogant British that had tried to prevent the survivors of the holocaust from returning to the land, they themselves had deeded Jewry for services rendered in World War I. Basil was a typical example of the arrogant, depleted aristocracy of the British Empire.

Arkadiy turned on his heel and returned to his seat.

Ira Lemontov sat back in his chair and looked at Ami, who allowed a fleeting glimpse of concern on his normally impassive features. Mossad would not condone any rift in the group, which drew attention to the cartel's existence. **Illegal arms merchants are always identified with their country and the Israeli government had no intention of allowing themselves to be identified. One incident such as this had occurred, attracting attention to the Nation, which was already judged by a different standard.**

Ira knew Israel needed to keep the British intelligence services onside, whilst the Americans were trying to make them sue for peace with the Palestinians. Stealing a glance at Ami, he realized the Mossad agent was wondering about the choice of Basil to front for the financial arm. Had the Brits made an error of judgment in their haste to replace the unexpected early demise of his predecessor?

"Then tell the Ruski to deport himself with better manners." Basil retorted defiantly.

The Russian glared at Basil and spread his arms wide. "What am I to do when this cretin insults my country and my honor?" he beseeched Ira.

Although he was strongly tempted to tell Arkadiy what he really thought he kept his icy demeanour. "I'm telling you both. Discretion is our bailiwick against exposure. Other traffickers have been identified by graduate students on the Internet and exposed. If they can find us Interpol can. If you can't put your differences aside you're out. I will never let you threaten this organisation." Ira's quiet threat was more disturbing than if he raged at them. To prevent any unravelling of the framework, the scheme had been devised to ensure cut outs were easily replaceable. This could certainly extend to members of the Cartel and had worked smoothly until Basil's predecessor had unexpectedly turned up his toes.

However his current threat was an idle one, but it succeeded in bringing the men to heel for now. He would let this one incident go. If needed, these idiots' masters would bring them into line faster than the Mongol hordes, led by Kublai Khan, who swept everything before them. "Your Foreign Office will be less than pleased." Turning to Basil, he stabbed his finger at him, to emphasise a point.

"And as for you." Turning to Arkadiy he directed the same finger at him. "Keep your Russian tantrums under control." His grandfather had regaled him with tales of the atrocities Jewry had been subjected to in the ex-KGB man's Motherland, whether under the Tsar or the Bolsheviks.

At this, Arkadiy stalked out of the room leaving no doubt in everyone's mind, this was far from over.

Reason prevailed for once as Basil became very thoughtful. It would not bode well for him if his masters learned he had been partly responsible for creating turmoil in the Cartel. Particularly if it threatened their source of income from the deal. This certainly did not bear thinking about. His stomach lurched uncomfortably at the thought.

Behind their urbane British Reserve, the Punjambahs at the Foreign Office wouldn't hesitate to eradicate him if he got in the way of their political agendas. Tendrils of fear goosed his spine, into his shoulders and he moved his neck in order to free it from seizing up. All too well, he was aware, of the lily white hands that would not hesitate to reach out, ensuring troublesome people disappeared without a trace.

Feeling distinctly uneasy, he thought of the accident in the tunnel in Paris which had killed a young royal and her Egyptian lover. Whether to avoid a scandal of immense proportions or other interested parties whom she had recently taken a stand against before her death, was unknown. Annihilation could be swift and lethal if you crossed the establishment's well laid plans.

Basil had learned it was the quiet spoken ones you had to watch in this world and he looked hard at Ira Lemontov, who held the key to Basil's dreams of future wealth and power. So close now he could taste it, as he confused the semblance of reality with the real thing. He was, and would remain, simply the minion carrying out the bidding of the powerbrokers behind the group.

Ira stood and walked out of the room deep in thought.

"There is too much at stake here." Ami the agent walked quietly beside him. "The PM will not be pleased."

"I'm aware of that. Damn the volatile arrogant Russians and the arrogant supercilious Englishman. I will control them both and make this work or I will replace them. Too much has gone into building Ersatz Israel over too many years to allow anyone to threaten it."

And so the game moves on to be played out upon a larger stage, beyond personal greed to the power of international politics. Ira understood the dynamics of world power and revelled in being at its centre. After 5000 years, Israel was a nation once again and he was playing an important part in its survival. No man and certainly not Ira Lemontov, could resist the entré this had given him to powerful circles who called him friend and respected him.

It had been a long time coming but now the western powers needed Israel as their foothold in the Middle East. The balance of power gave the small nation a standing in the world and a slight edge over their former arrogant masters. After more than 4000 years of persecution, the boot was on the other foot now.

And so, the tentacles reached out from the corrupt Cartel, intent on increasing their personal wealth at the expense of others into two of the most vulnerable countries in the world. Africa, whose endemic corruption allowed its riches to be plundered at will. And Palestine, which the western powers self interests demanded be controlled by the destabilisation and disaffection of its peoples, as it was their foothold in the Middle East and the way to the oil rich countries that were no longer dancing to their imperious tune. Vast sums of foreign aid were made available to carry out the atrocities, perpetrated by a state desperately determined to end their 4000 year old history of persecution and oppression. Anarchy and chaos were the order of the day.

Chapter 4 – New York April 2005

With the first year of marriage behind them, Colette slowly began to realize how ill suited they were. The suave debonair man vanished before her eyes.

Whilst he basked in the reflection of her success, she had felt his resentment when it was necessary to distance herself from him as she began writing her new novel eight months ago.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded. "I don't know what you are thinking and rarely see you these days."

"What on earth's wrong with you Basil?" Colette was unprepared for this frontal attack at a time she needed harmony around her. Why would he need to know what she was thinking all the time? As if it mattered. They were an independent couple weren't they? She had certainly thought so.

"You know I have to seclude myself to immerse myself in the story. I have to tease reality out and breathe life into the characters. This is a complete departure from my other books. It's a genre I haven't tried before."

Then the green eyed monster rose up from the depths and pushed its way to the surface. "And I need you to by my side at the functions, dinner parties and first night openings that my position demands I attend," Basil insisted.

This became a continual refrain, with Basil at his most sanctimonious. Coupled with his constant demands on her time over trifling matters, the constant barrage was beginning to wear her down.

Colette found herself walking on eggshells to avoid triggering his sulks and tantrums.

"Basil, before we married you were happy to go places alone when I couldn't be with you. We discussed the demands the process of writing would make on my time and you told me you understood and could cope with this," Colette protested.

"You still have time to see those literary geniuses you mix with." Behaving quite petulantly, the mask he had worn for twelve months was beginning to crack.

"Sometimes I need the input and encouragement from my peers, because they understand what a demanding lonely path a writer treads. We have to discipline ourselves and write for eight hours a day if we are to get anywhere. It's not like an office job where someone else is driving you."

"So why aren't you available when the eight hours are up?"

"Many times I am Basil," she tossed over her shoulder as she began to walk away. "However, when I am in the midst of a creative flow, I can't just down tools or I would lose the thread."

"Bah." Growling with displeasure, he brought her up short by grabbing her arm. "Don't walk away from me. How many months do you think I'm going to put up with this?"

"Don't ever do that to me again Basil." Her voice was icy and cutting, surprising him. Normally she was mellow and easy going. This turn of events threw him. "It will take as long as it takes to write. Some novels can take up to two years." Perhaps he had been confusing easy going with being malleable. Until now, she had no reason to stand up to him like this. He knew she was an independent spirit and had professed to like this trait in her.

Truth be told, at times it had irritated him but he believed he could curb it when they married. Jumping back into the fray, he began to make matters worse as he thrust his face close to hers. "Well if you think I'm going to put up with that, you've got another thought coming."

The unfortunate recipient of the venom raining down eating at the very fiber of her being was appalled at the change in his attitude.

"So, you're going to lock yourself away again tonight?" he continued to rant. "When I want you to be by my side, I expect you to comply with my wishes."

"I've got a deadline with my publishers to meet and I would rather be home writing than with those pretentious people you go to first night openings with." As she continued to walk towards her study he stood gazing balefully at her retreating back.

"You didn't think they were pretentious before we married."

Turning to face him she bit back, knowing she couldn't spend the rest of her life with Basil, avoiding emotional landmines.

"I didn't meet this particular group of people before we married. No wonder you kept them hidden from sight. They're nasty, bitchy social climbers." Walking into the study, she closed the door wondering how matters had come to such a sorry state.

Slowly the realization grew that it was a deliberate attempt to stifle her creativity and sublimate her will to his. If she let him, he would control her mind and life. Jeez, those old signals from her childhood, this she could not allow, so the battle of the sexes was fought all over again.

His resentment hung around the apartment and their relationship, like the thick mists hovering over the Florida Everglades. What murky things lay beneath the surface? Was his ultimate goal to stifle her creative voice, cage her spirit and break her until he held complete dominion over her mind and body? Surely not? There had been no indication of such control during their courtship. He couldn't have been more accommodating.

So why the sudden change to this unreasonable behavior that she could not condone and was interfering with her career. As it continued, the ravine between them grew wider and deeper, no matter how carefully she traversed the slippery slope.

Trying to keep him pacified drained her energy to such an extent she felt as though her soul was being stolen. Finally realizing she was trying to please another emotionally unavailable bully whose own selfish needs surmounted hers, she made her stand after yet another attack.

"Where are you going tonight? I thought we could have a night in." Basil was at his most perverse, knowing very well her plans for tonight.

"I told you yesterday I have to meet Francis. As my agent he needs to discuss my progress on the new novel. You're more than welcome to join me." Tentatively she held out an olive branch attempting to mollify this unreasonable man.

Basil's mendacity came to the fore as he conveniently forgot their conversation. "You did not tell me anything of the sort. These occasions bore me to tears. I'm not interested in mixing with your jumped up literary hacks."

Colette couldn't be bothered calling him out on the truth and moved on. "Don't you dare call them that." Furious, she turned on him defending her successful friends. "You appeared to like them well enough when we were courting."

"Yes, well I made an effort because I liked you. I was willing to let you share my glamorous lifestyle which is far preferable to your middle class aspirations?"

Colette started as though she had been slapped and caught her breath. "It's becoming obvious to me Basil that you like being surrounded by snobbery and pretension. It's a pity you didn't show that side of yourself to me before."

"I thought you were capable of stepping up to the mark," Basil scathingly retorted, as his sullen gaze raked her from head to toe. He liked parading her around, showing off his prize.

Involuntarily stepping back to avoid the feeling of dread that overcame her as she absorbed this cruel taunt, Colette suspected Basil wanted to become proprietor of her soul.

"What hypothetical mark Basil?" Colette's dander rose from the depths where it had been quietly snoozing and outed. "Some invisible line I cannot see that I have crossed?"

"Yes, well it is time a line in the sand was drawn isn't it?" Basil was determined to curtail her objections to his demands.

"Don't you dare patronize me." Colette drew herself up to her full height and faced off with the sullen man. "So you're drawing battle lines are you? I'm not interested in spending my life in a co-dependent relationship with a pretentious prick. You told me you admired my independent spirit."

Jesus. Basil hadn't known she had this in her. Well he could be pretty scathing when he chose and waded back into the fray. "I didn't know you were going to be bloody stubborn over a stupid penny dreadful. How long can it possibly take to write one of those?"

Colette stepped back, staring at him in astonishment. "What did you say?"

Basil realized he had gone too far this time and tried to claw back the insult while reaching out to touch her. "I didn't mean that, sorry."

Colette drew back as though he held a branding iron in his hand, realizing she had made a huge mistake tying herself to this stranger. "Don't touch me. Yes, you did mean that. You're saying what you've thought all along aren't you? Debasing what I do for a living. Do you think I will let you demean me like this?" Colette's emerald green eyes were blazing. "I've never seen the real you until now have I?"

Too late Basil realized he had unleashed the redhead's fury from the depths and its face was that of a warrior queen. Sod it, he was not going to back down now so the silly man crossed a line from which there was no retreat. "Well it's hardly a real job is it? My career is far more important and as my wife, I expect you to realize that."

Colette spun on her heel and grabbing her pocket book stormed out of the townhouse into the night, leaving a confused bully in her wake. This line of attack always worked with the fawning sycophants around him in business. What the hell was the matter with her? Feeling slightly bereft, he finally acknowledged the cat was well and truly amongst the pigeons now.

Feeling utterly miserable, she drove up to Cambridge, to weep on her best friend, Ellie's, shoulder.

"I've been so worried about this." The concern was evident on her friend's face as she comforted Colette. "I thought at the beginning you lived in completely different worlds. Basil has his retinue of fawning sycophants in the bank and he's not used to someone standing up to him."

"But I'm his wife," Colette protested.

"I'm not sure you are more than a glittering trophy to him." Gently Ellie tried to get her friend to look at the truth. "You live in different worlds."

Tears spilled over from her friend's woeful eyes and she looked so wistful, Ellie's heart went out to her. "I'm sorry that was hurtful of me," she apologized, but they had always been strictly honest with each other and she had to get her friend to look at this damaging relationship before it was too late.

"No, I need to hear the truth." Colette looked into Ellie's eyes. "Maybe you can see what I couldn't. Obviously I had some romantic notion of marriage as a safe harbor to shelter from life's stormy passages of time. I soon found out the reality is nothing like it.

Feeling audacious and strong, Colette returned to Sutton Place the next day determined to give the relationship another chance. Basil had thought long and hard during the night and decided he should back off in the meantime.

As Colette continued to give her full attention to her writing it did not take long for the atmosphere to grow tense and brittle again.

New demands that she account for her whereabouts, who she would be with, who would be there. Waiting up for her when she arrived home on the odd occasion she went out seeking relief from his presence. In order to defuse situation she tried to ensure she met friends alone when he was away on business trips.

To her complete embarrassment, the situation spiraled out of control when he began telephoning her friends, restaurants where she might have met someone for lunch, appointments with doctors, dentists, osteopaths. An obvious ploy to check up on who she was with.

"What is all this about Basil?" She wearily challenged him one evening, when he arrived home. Realizing she was sublimating her own needs to avoid upsetting him, she knew this was fruitless and detrimental to her own wellbeing. She wasn't prepared to go on like this in an endeavor to save a doomed relationship.

"Why would I bother to do that?" he defended himself, desperately scrabbling around in his warped mind for a way out of the predicament.

Colette was not about to be staved off. "Cut the bullshit Basil. Of course you're doing this. Did you think it would not get back to me? It's highly embarrassing."

Continuing to be relentless he made matters worse. "Well how do I know what you get up to when I'm not with you?"

Such petulance was getting on her nerves and Colette bridled. "It's obvious you've got enormous issues with trust. I know what you're up to." Colette wasn't prepared to put up with his seedy accusations. "You're merely transposing your own morals on to me. Perhaps this is what you get up to under the same circumstances."

"Don't try and make me account for my behavior. It's your own that's under question." He glowered and smirked as he delivered the innuendo-laden allegation.

This was like a red rag to a bull. "Good old double standards Basil? How do I know what the hell you get up to when you're on your business trips overseas? Perhaps you're banging hookers on the Reeperbahn for all I know." Strangely enough, this taunt appeared to hit a raw nerve as Basil hit the roof denying all culpability. For one moment, she thought he would lose control and hit her. Maybe it was time to get out before he did.

Unwilling to admit defeat she believed in giving the relationship one more chance. Her choice confused her. What outmoded signals was she reacting to? Did she really want to go through life as a sacrificial lamb feeding the bonfire of Basil's vanities?

His unwarranted jealousy and possessiveness drove her crazy. Sometimes she felt they were living in medieval times, where he locked her up in some cold, draughty castle complete with

chastity belt, while he galloped over some foreign countryside haranguing and murdering the inhabitants in the name of the poor Jewish radical who hung on a cross for mankind.

The situation could not continue and it came to a head again when she took time out for a well deserved break, to give time to first time authors.

"What the hell are you doing wasting your time on nobodies." Once again, Basil was scathing of her desire to help others less fortunate than herself.

"It's my duty as a successful writer to help emerging ones. It's a real struggle for them," Colette tried to explain.

"Christ, start living in the real world." How could she even consider an evening with these wannabes, when she could be out at some glittering function with him?

"This is my real world Basil," she responded wearily attempting to reason with him but knowing where this was heading. "I can't write about real people unless I inhabit their world and not some rarified one."

"Real world." An outpouring of scorn rained down upon her. "The real world is where the powerbrokers like me dwell."

"What the hell are you talking about Basil?" Colette was getting thoroughly fed up with his continual tirades. "I would like you to come with me if you want to. You seemed interested before."

"Come with you," Basil sneered. "I wouldn't be caught dead with those losers."

"Well I'll go alone then."

Basil's cold gray eyes raked her from head to foot as though he could tear the flesh from her bones.

"So you can indulge in some hippy fuck fest?" His tongue slithered over the crude suggestion.

"Hold on right there." Colette was appalled at his vindictiveness. "I'm not putting up with disgusting suggestions like that."

"Then why do you want to run off to that hippie crowd with low morals when you should be coming out with me where I want to go." He sniffed malevolently.

"Morals." Colette countered. "The crowd you move in has the morals of an alley cat. No, I take that back, the alley cat has better morals. At least it is doing what it has to do for the species to survive."

"Bugger off then, you cow." With this retort Basil slammed a door on the relationship that could never be opened again.

"You're destroying our relationship with this insane behavior. Perhaps this is what you want. I'm no simpering socialite that wants to fawn over successful men at polo and race meetings. Perhaps you should find someone that does."

"There's no shortage of women lining up for me." Perhaps he thought he could intimidate her with this insult but he made the wrong call again.

Colette turned the key and locked it tight, retorting as she walked away from him and out the door. "Enough. It's the end Basil. I will sleep at a hotel tonight and we will discuss dissolving the marriage tomorrow."

Turning on her heel, she picked up her bag and walking out of the apartment hailed a cab to take her to a hotel for the night.

Having shown his true colors, Basil finally realized he was lashed to the mast on a ship riding out stormy seas. "If she thinks I'm going to back down and crawl up her ass she's got another thought coming," he simmered the next morning. "I'll pull her into line."

This was easier said than done and the relationship sailed out past the distant horizon with each protagonist on different shores. Finally they had reached an impasse from which there was no turning back.

From phrases overheard and casual asides he had tossed around in an attempt to impress her, she began to suspect Basil inhabited a shadowy world of which she wanted no part. Instinctively she knew asking him for a divorce would be an affront to his pride and the ramifications would be most unpleasant, perhaps even dangerous.

Going into orbit, he threatened, cajoled and sulked over four long tedious months. It took an enormous toll on her and delayed the writing of the book which pleased him no end. Amongst accusations of her having an affair and leaving him for another man, he finally capitulated. Finally he moved into his gentlemen's club to live, whilst they sorted out selling the townhouse in Sutton Place.

Breathing freely again, she also knew he would be unforgiving and was uneasy about the dark side she had glimpsed recently. Perhaps he would just get on with his life. After all, there were plenty of other women in the circle who would love to get their talons into him as they flew around the eagle's nest at the top. Image and Status were Basil's Holy Grail.

His marriage was behind him now. The apartment in Sutton Place in which they both had an interest, had been sold and the proceeds distributed between them.

Regardless of that bitch he would show the world. If only he had been able to parade before her, his inclusion in a successful Cartel with long reaching power. When the time was right he would unleash the iron fist in the leather glove.

No fault for the failed marriage could be subscribed to him of course so he quickly spread his venom once they parted casting aspersions on her, hoping to smear her reputation. Naturally the fringe ghouls gathered at the feast. United in their insecurities, they picked over the bones of the relationship and stirred up the fires of bitterness and hatred against her for turning on one of their own. As Colette didn't care about his inner circle she shrugged and moved away without a backward glance or regret.

Chapter 5 – Monaco 2005

Basil was sulking after the Cartel's meeting earlier that morning. His position with his current salaried income limited him and did not satisfy his desire to be one of the extremely rich. He craved this cachet beyond reason. It gnawed at him like a hungry gray wolf that sought to assuage its hunger. His acceptance by the Cartel was a god given opportunity to flex his mental muscles and show what he was really made of.

Although Basil was not naturally prudent, in this instance after the confrontation with Arkadiy he deemed it necessary. After all, the Cartel was providing him with the one and only chance he had to realize his dreams and ambitions.

Oh well, if he needed to grovel to two Israeli Jews and Mossad so be it, but he would be damned if he would bow before the Russian. It was not as though he had to have an intimate relationship with him. The thought nearly made him throw up. At a stretch he could manage a temporary truce, but he would not be thwarted as he hurtled towards pre-eminence.

To rid himself of the bitter taste of Ira's admonishment of him he wandered towards the fabled Casino de Monte Carlo nestled in the harbor in the afternoon.

This time he had elected not to stay at the famous Hotel de Paris adjacent to the casino, deeming the incursion of the hordes of tourists that descended upon the square was simply too much for him to bear.

Booking into the newly renovated Hotel Hermitage he gave it his seal of approval. The entrance hall was a symphony of marble with its contemporary classic features in shades of beige, cream, off-white and sand, set off with hues of sea-green and celadon. The lobby was bathed in light from the glass roof of the first floor, greeting the guests with light and color. The refurbished elegant guestrooms were refined and delicate with their Belle Époque furniture.

"Yes it is very much to my taste," he thought as he basked in the luxury.

Monaco is truly the Koh-i-Noor diamond set in the crown of the Mediterranean French Riviera and which spans four areas. The diamond meaning Mount of Light had symbolized the glory and magnificence of the Moghul empire which outshone even that of the Shah of Persia in the eleventh century.

Monte Carlo the wealthy area surrounding the Casino was where Basil loved to take the air. Monaco Ville, the old town on the rock where the Grimaldi's Palace perches; La Condamine, the area around the port with its horseshoe shaped harbor-marina filled with floating palaces posing as yachts, some complete with their own helicopters on board; and Porta di Fontvieille, the industrial area to the west, which nobody mentions.

"The sun shines here three hundred days a year." The locals boast and justly so. The wonderful climate of the South of France attracts the exodus from the Northern winters that pours into the tiny principality covering less than one square mile and spans some four thousand meters of coastline.

To its detriment, the nouveau riche of the Russian Mafia had not been impervious to the obvious charms of the Cote d'Azure and embraced it with fervor. One particularly obnoxious oligarch with a bloated opinion of his own self importance and place in the world, had complained to the French railway authority that the tracks that passed by his mansion were disturbing him and his family's serenity. Would they relocate the tracks? He would be happy to pay for it.

Luckily the French have been around for a long time and seen it all, but at such staggering arrogance, being an expressive race, they threw up their hands in horror and rightly so.

"Mon Dieu," the extravagance of the arrogant French royalty in 1791 had produced a revolution that turned France upside down, did this upstart bourgeoisie, with his warped perception of his own importance, believe the country would entertain such a request? Did he think he was a reincarnation of the unfortunate King Louis XVI, who had lost his head because of such behavior? Or perhaps the Emperor Napoleon?

French arrogance welled up and directed itself against the oligarch. They took great pleasure in refusing him by adhering strictly to the principles that governed the Republic.

Oh the allure of Monte Carlo where the rich get richer as they idle the days away in luxury while the poorer get poorer.

Nor did it deter the procession of face-lifted ladies, promenading their tiny perfectly groomed floor mops in the sunshine, as they sheltered from winter's grip in the northern hemisphere.

Having earned its reputation as the playground of the idle rich, elderly sugar-daddies in convertibles with the top down showed off their latest young, blonde plaything.

"It's simply outrageous," Basil reflected. "Once so refined and elegant. So very very wealthy you could smell it in the air." Here his minor aristocratic nose lifted that little bit higher. "Ugh. All this is now tainted by the vulgar tourists and their disgusting tour buses."

How Basil yearned to have been part of the sophisticated wealthy set that had inhabited glamorous Monte Carlo in the early nineteen hundreds.

"It was so exclusive," he sighed, imagining himself amongst the filthy rich with European Royalty regularly in attendance, idling their days away together,indulging in sheer pleasure for as long as they chose. "Oh, those were the days."

Basil's sort of people. As his imagination ran riot picturing himself in a starring role, he continued his perambulations along the Promenade. "Perhaps Colette's ridiculous belief in reincarnation could have some truth in it," he enjoined himself. After all, he felt so at home in Monte Carlo. Whenever he returned there was a definite feeling of déjà vu for him.

So busy reflecting on what might have been rather than the present, his stately progress along the promenade was impeded by the throngs of excited tourists. His patrician nose twitched at the spectacle of tour guides holding up their flags or batons as they herded their flock along, calling them to order and imparting local history. To Basil's jaundiced eyes it looked like Barnum and Bailey circus gone completely mad.

"Come along Group Yellow. We're moving on to the famous Monte Carlo Casino."

Casting a look of utter disdain at the tourists excitedly thronging the promenades and cafes, the psychopath he buried deep down in his genitals until it was time to let it out of its cage, was clawing its way to the surface distorting his perception of reality. "My God, thank heavens the Gatsby set are not alive to see what was happening in Monte Carlo. They would be turning in their graves."

It is a thin line between imagination and madness particularly if one seeks solace in wistful imaginings. "These horrible people who have been saving their pennies for years at their boring little jobs. Imagining they are more than they really are by coming to Europe for the grand overseas adventure. The man was definitely a snob of the first degree.

Pure malice flowed from Basil as the tourists continued to get in his way. 'Like a flock of stupid seagulls at the seaside.' Irritated beyond belief, his bitter thoughts rolled around in his brain like the anvil shaped clouds generated from the terribly bad attitude of the ancient god Thor. 'Half of them are so decrepit they should have remained in the retirement villages that house them, eating their meals on wheels. Not let loose upon society as a whole.

With his thoroughly prejudicial attitude against anyone who did not fill his social criteria coloring the scene around him, he cast a baleful glance at the throngs as though something distasteful was under his patrician nose. His obvious pomposity ensured the crowds parted for him, thus allowing his stately progress to the elegant old building. After all the flock reasoned, he could be someone rich and famous they should know but couldn't quite put their finger on at the moment; and part of the trip included recognizing celebrities who were unfortunate enough to be spotted and mobbed.

In his opinion Monte Carlo was being spoilt by tour buses and riff raff of the sort that inhabited the dreadful casinos in Atlantic City and Las Vegas. Such vulgar places. Unfortunately Monte Carlo had now installed those appalling slot machines which attracted these sort of people.

Like many diminished aristocrats his gene pool had produced a walking hazard. It was a distinct shock when the inhabitants of his enfeebled social circles were exposed to those more emotionally balanced. Spoilt, embracing the belief they were vastly superior to others by a freak accident of birth, they indulged jaded palates that could only be stimulated by outrageous behavior and sometimes questionable tastes when it came to sexual gratification. Often resulting in the secret desire to inflict (or receive) pain.

Truth be told, after abusing the services of high priced society call girls Basil had to be restrained. Unfortunately his hidden desires would out, like a rogue elephant rampaging through the jungle. In the end it had been necessary to relocate him far away from Brittanica's shores. Whilst many shared his proclivities in America, he was less likely to show his hand amongst former colonists who spurned his not quite so well bred pedigree.

"What's the matter with the Grimaldi's allowing this?" Furious he stamped through the crowds pushing them aside if they got in his way. Refusing to go around the groups who twittered like golden canaries in a cage when the door has been left open and they spread their wings for a little freedom.

Chapter 6 – Monte Carlo

Frustrated, Basil paused for a moment to look out at the fabled harbor. His reverie was interrupted once again as tour guides began to spout their spiel to the hordes gathered around them.

"Monaco is an elegant old girl, who dates way back and her history is fascinating."

"Christ." Basil's vitriolic nature surfaced in a moment. "I suppose the stupid bitch thinks that is such a clever comment," and he cast a look of pure disdain upon the unfortunate woman who was simply trying to make a living. It was a pity he could not understand her own frustration with the hordes she had to face and manage every day.

"Traces of a primitive population who sheltered on the rock have been discovered," she continued as the tourists hung on her every word whilst glancing around at a lifestyle they could never hope to enjoy. "Probably settled by Phoenicians in ancient times, there are conflicting versions of its origin. One is that the name Monaco comes from the Ligurian tribe and dates back to the sixth century BC. Others claim the port was associated with Hercules. The origin of the principality's modern name, was taken from Monoikos, the Greek surname for this mythological strong man."

Basil sniffed and whilst he hoped the group would part for him like Moses and the Red Sea, they remained an impenetrable wall and he was forced to go around them as he continued his perambulation. This brought him into conflict with yet another group.

"During the twelfth century BC the Romans occupied the area." A male tour guide advised his flock. "After the fall of the Roman Empire, the region went through an unstable period, continually being sacked. The Count of Provence appears to have cleared up the instability and the coast slowly became repopulated."

Basil cast a glance upon the guide that would have wilted a thinner skinned individual, but this boy had seen it all and knew how to deal with the likes of Basil who thought they owned this charming principality and resented anyone who dared to tread the hallowed ground.

"Genoa became a thriving city and the Grimaldis, who were a Genovese family, allied themselves with the Guelfs for control of the area," the guide continued busily trying to keep his flock in check and ignoring Basil. "Unfortunately they lost and were expelled from Genoa, so they took refuge in Provence with their armies. The first Grimaldi Francois, cunningly disguised as a monk, gained entre to the region and the ensuing takeover of the stronghold of Monaco became the beginning of the Grimaldi dynasty." As he paused for breath and herded the group forward a little, they twittered their amazement to one another.

Bringing them back to attention, he continued. "Another ancestor Fulco des Cassello, obtained sovereignty for all the land surrounding the Rock from the Emperor Henri V and laid the first stone of a stronghold that is the Prince's Palace today. He was the first ruler to offer the inhabitants tax relief and free land, which endeared his subjects to him."

"Ooh," gasped the group.

"Lucky bastards," a stocky American commented in a loud Texan accent. "Maybe we should move here Laura. Our country is busy sucking us dry to fight wars." An aside to his plump wife with Bermuda shorts covering her ample backside and hips.

Giggling, she smacked him on the arm. "Oh you are a hoot, George," and looked to the group for recognition of her husband's crass wit. Sighing as one they turned their attention back to the guide as he continued his dissertation.

"Their fortunes fluctuated back and forth over the next five centuries. They fared badly in the French Revolution, when the regime annexed Monaco. In 1731, the male line died out but was saved by the French Goyon-Matignon family, which succeeded by marriage and assumed the name Grimaldi. After being independent for 800 years, Monaco was annexed to France in 1793 and placed under Sardinia's protection in 1815. This was a time when the Monegasques did not fare well. Under the Franco-Monegasque treaty of 1861 Monaco went under French guardianship but continued to be independent. A treaty entered into with France in 1918 contained a clause providing that in the event that the male Grimaldi line died without any heirs, the Principality would remain an independent nation rather than revert to France."

"Getting to be a bit of a history lesson ain't it?" George raised his voice and looked to the group for further admiration of his latest witticism. "Never was my best subject at school."

"Sir you are welcome to go ahead and join us at the entrance to the Casino. You will of course be unable to enter without the entire group being present." The guide squashed fat George flat which was quite an achievement. Admonished he subsided and listened grudgingly.

Basil smirked at the man's discomfort and pushed around this group, only to run into another.

"In 1861, its independent status was finally recognized and Monaco moved ahead," twittered another harassed young woman. God this group was a pain in the proverbial. Pack of smartasses.

"In 1863 the Society des Bains de Mer et du Cercle des Etrangers was leased to Francois Blanc, who was granted a monopoly on gambling.... and voila, the Monte Carlo of today was born."

Loud rude comments were directed at the harassed woman. "Yeah OK, enough with the history lesson, let's get on to the action."

"When are we going to the casino?"

Sighing she thought once more of giving up the job. There were always one or two class clowns in a group. Glaring at them she gave up and prancing ahead set off for the object of their unrealistic desires.

Basil ruminated on the royal family. To be fair, Prince Rainier III had done a great deal for his principality other than marry a famous American film star. Indeed their union produced three good looking children who provided eager television stations with one of the world's longest running soap operas, in color.

Firstly Prince Rainier had clawed back full ownership of the Casino de Monte Carlo, after growing concern over the majority interests the Greek tycoon Aristotle Onassis held in most businesses in Monaco. Originally they had been good chums, in fact Onassis had introduced Rainier and Grace Kelly. The Prince had welcomed Onassis' wealth in Monaco's businesses, but the close friendship cooled in the late 1960's.

When the rich and famous fall out, they do so in a rather public manner.

Rainier went so far as very announcing. "That man! I won't have anything to do with him! He'd like to turn Monte Carlo into Monte Greco! Last time Onassis came to the palace I told him, "Mr. Onassis, your money has brought you everything except an education. You were badly brought up!"

Obviously feeling control was slipping out of his hands, armed with the wealth that Onassis had helped bring to the Principality, he purchased back all interests in the company, Société des Bains de Mer de Monaco) which controls the gaming industry and the three largest and most lavish resort hotels in the principality.

Basil thought it was wonderful the way Rainier had ruled in the Greek bounder. "What a buffoon he was. The manners of a longshoreman." And he shuddered at the thought of Onassis amongst the genteel society of that time.

"Thank God," he thought. "When one makes the rules in a country one can change and use them to one's benefit." Nevertheless it was no mean feat to stack up against Onassis in full cry. Hats off to Prince Rainier.

Although the focus remained on the fabled casino and the royal family Basil was well aware that the principality no longer relies on gambling revenue alone. Nor the cash cow of tourism which represent less than fifteen percent of the total revenue of the state. Many people remain unaware that Monaco is home to many hi-tech non-polluting industries such as banking and financial services which allow the inhabitants of Monaco to continue enjoying a tax free environment. "That buffoon is right," he reflected. "Maybe I will end up living in Monaco."

"After all, Monaco enjoys political stability which attracts and guarantees the durability of financial investments and industrial projects." He was brought back to earth by another tour guide's comments. "This is due to the constant presence and guidance of the Grimaldis who do not lack intelligence."

Basil recalled how the principality was smacked over the hand by France some years ago, when it was accused of being a centre for money-laundering. Tut tut! 'Like the French are above corruption. Such a joke.'

High above the city sits the Grimaldi family's palace glistening pinkly in the sunlight, atop the Rock in the fortified Old Town. Despite their wealth and beauty the vagaries of life have not escaped the inhabitants of the palace, whose lives play out on the world stage. None of which hurts the tourist industry. Such beauty and wealth in a dynasty that fascinates the eager followers of Eurotrash, couldn't get enough of them in the dozens of gossip magazines, ensuring hordes of paparazzi were always within striking distance.

Well it could only be good for business. No Hollywood director could have staged it better. Perhaps their beloved Princess Grace is the divine hand behind it all.

Chapter 7- Casino de Monte Carlo

Alongside the Grimaldi family, the most glamorous symbol of Monaco is the Casino de Monte Carlo which is set in a splendid square amidst fountains and palms. Built in 1863 by Charles Garnier, the legendary architect who built the glorious Paris Opera, it is the main attraction in Monte Carlo and people flock to it from all parts of the world.

Basil breathed in the opulence as he sauntered into the famous building. It has been the focal point of the playground for the rich and famous since its inception. Only the most lavish lifestyles could afford to gamble there then and many large fortunes had been made and lost. It has since opened its hallowed doors to the middle class provided they are dressed appropriately. Men must wear a shirt and tie, no wandering in clothed only in shorts and sandals.

Eyes followed Basil wending his way through the glorious gold and marble atrium in search of the rich and famous. Certainly he cut a dashing figure in the minds of the celebrity seekers, who turned to reassure themselves he was not someone they could claim to have seen when they returned home.

Strolling firstly into the Salle Médecin located in the east wing of the Casino, named after the architect who designed it, he cast his eyes over the frescoes, bas-reliefs, sculptures and caryatids, all vying for attention in this wonderful renaissance building. It was balm to his soul.

Built on the buildings terrace, it is also known as the Salle Empire because of the mahogany engraved with gold and the wall hangings, both reminiscent of the Napoleon era.

Deciding he would dine later in the fabled "Les Privés' restaurant with its magnificent views of the sea and Cap-Martin through huge glass windows, he condescended to stop in the Café de Paris and partake of a cup of coffee and a delicious pain au chocolate. Just a small indulgence while he studied the 16 stained glass windows with the signs of the Zodiac and the 4 seasons.

Content for the moment gazing over the heart of the Golden Square facing the Hôtel de Paris, he let more history of the Casino wash over him. In 1910 le Salle Empire was the domain of a private gaming circle for the big players, who demanded total privacy for their expensive games.

How Basil would have loved to be part of that intimate elite circle. Surely he had been born in the wrong era? Imagine if he had been born twenty years earlier, he would have been heir to the family fortune and not some impoverished relation. Then he could have really enjoyed Monte Carlo. Or he could have belonged to the mythical Gatsby set, immortalized by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

'Now they knew how to live in that era. The pursuit of wealth and pleasure. Basil Mortimer, the great raconteur.' Wistfully contemplating what might have been and completely out of touch with reality, he sipped daintily at his coffee. "Yes, that mantle would have suited me very well."

His attention was diverted from his glamorous visions by the spectacle of the thundering hordes of tourists descending on the Café. Sniffing at the vulgaristas playing the slot machines that had now been installed in place of the original bowling alley, he decided it was time to move on. How Basil loathed the vulgar machines with their robotic players pulling the handles hour after hour, bright lights flashing and money loudly gushing into the receptacle. How bourgeoisie. Fancy letting the riff raff take over such elegance.

After imagining being part of the smart set of Monaco in the 1930's who took the café to their heart, when the art deco style was all the rage, Basil could have wept. "It simply is not to be borne."

Renovated yet again in 1988, when the Café celebrated its 120th anniversary, it retained its Belle Époque exterior which Basil felt was entirely wasted on the middle class ignoramuses.

Signaling for his bill, he was pleased to move into a more rarified atmosphere. Two adjoining small but luxurious gaming rooms are available for those high rollers who seek privacy as they play European or English Roulette, Trente et Quarante, Chemin de Fer (the version of Baccarat played in France), Banque a deux tableaux and Punto Banco.

Basil peeked inside as he continued on his way to the Salon de l'Europe with its amazing frescoes of the four seasons and the beautiful countryside surrounding Monaco.

When the success of the original venture became apparent, the Salle Blanche originally intended to be used as a conversation room, was soon turned into another gaming room. Its decor is still the original and as Basil gazed at one of the paintings by Gervais, The Florentine Graces in which regular gamblers to the venue are characterized, once more he pined for that era. To his dismay, this charming room had also been given over to vulgar common slot machines with which Basil would have no truck. Sniffing disdainfully he moved on having bigger fish to fry.

Traversing the Salles Touzet, Basil basked in the luxurious ambience. Opened in 1890 when electricity was introduced, the Casino became a glittering wonderland. The rooms designed by architect Jules Touzet were not completely decorated when the players took possession of them. A few sculptural improvements later and the very fine rooms were completed. Although they were renovated in 1988, their very spirit remained intact.

"Oh yes, you can feel it all." Basil's imagination played through scenes he could only be part of during his flights of fancy.

What a shame it was not the season for one of the world renowned Monte Carlo Opera productions but this did not stop Basil from languishing in the luxurious feeling of the room.

Casting his eyes over the sculptures and paintings in the vast salon, the early 20th century carpet, he drank in the scene. Looking upward he took in the amazing eight monumental chandeliers made of bohemian crystal, each weighing more than 150 kilos.

"This is how people are meant to live. I do believe I will move here to reside in a few years." Never tiring of living in the glamorous past, he soaked up the atmosphere while his mind exploded with possibilities. 'The Metropolitan Opera cannot even begin to compete with this. Upstarts.' Disparagingly he dismissed the elegant building in New York.

"Aah." A small sigh of contentment found its way from deep down in his soul to his lips and expelled itself as Basil moved on to escape the thundering hordes in the elegant Salons _Privé_ (private salons), the most glamorous of the Casino's gambling rooms. Whilst they could follow him to the European Rooms with the adjoining Pink Salon Bar, the ceiling of which features female nudes smoking cigarettes, this seemed to be as far as they ventured. After oohing and aahing over such European naughtiness and a fair amount of leering from the men, they could be counted upon to sod off.

Whilst roulette and trente et quante were played in the European Rooms Basil reasoned it took more effort and brainpower, as well as a certain amount of risk, to try your hand at these sophisticated games than to pull a handle on a slot machine. He thanked God for that.

European or English roulette, chemin de fer and blackjack could be played when the doors opened after 3pm in the Salons Privé. Here one could rub shoulders with the rich and famous. The massive amounts of money which pass over the tables in this rarefied atmosphere, takes your breath away. Whilst he could not afford to gamble at that level yet it would not be long before he joined that elite group. The mere thought of it gave him a hard on.

Settling down at the Chemin de Fer (baccarat) table, in the Salon Europa, over the next two hours he won steadily and amassed a respectable amount of money. Content with his winnings, he collected his chips, and wandered back to the luxuriously appointed Salle le Médecin with its elegant rich clientele. After showing his pass to the discreetly black tie dressed bouncer, he stood quietly perusing the scene. A crowd had gathered around the Chemin de Fer table and were watching one man who was obviously having a fantastic lucky run. Easing his way through he heard a familiar voice.

"Oh my God. It's that vulgar bloody Russian. Fancy letting him in here." Basil watched enviously as Arkadiy's lucky streak just got better and better. The crowd were murmuring admiringly. The upstart had four absolutely gorgeous women around him, two on each side. "Vulgar bastard is probably rooting all four of them" Basil was simmering inside whilst maintaining a cool British James Bond demeanor on the outside.

"Oh well," Basil consoled himself. "The bastard's probably on Viagra to get it up at all." Completing overlooking the fact that the man was still in his early 40's and shunning the rumors of Russian sexual prowess, Basil preferred to stick with his illusion as he surreptitiously adjusted his crotch which had begun to stir. Whether from the sight of the female flesh available to his rival, or his jealousy, he was unsure. "Of course, he's paying for them. Eurotrash for hire. No respectable woman would choose to be seen with an uncouth creature like him."

Just then, Arkadiy turned to the man alongside him and Basil nearly choked on his envy. Damned if he wasn't with a famous Egyptian actor who had featured in many American extravaganzas of the 1960's and 70's. who was known to be a notorious gambler and a major cocksman as well. With his to die for looks, not to mention his sexy as all get out accent, he had cut a swathe through many English and American actresses, who apparently came out of the encounters with no complaints and a smile on their face.

"Suppose he has a retinue of groupies as well." Basil was seething again. "Dirty old sod, he must be in his 80's now. You can't tell me he's seeing any action now. Perhaps he watches and gets off on that. Still, you never knew with these womanizing wogs." Unfortunately Basil was a racist of the worst kind.

"What the hell was the world coming to?" he mentally clamored to himself. "Not like the genteel days of the good old British Empire when they knew their place." It was simply too galling for Basil to remain, so he cashed in his chips and returned to his hotel room to sulk.

Chapter 8 – New York March 2006

"You know Ellie, moving out to the Hamptons could be the perfect solution for me."

Colette's best friend was on the other end of the phone and she could always bounce ideas off Ellie who would play devil's advocate and could be counted on to be truthful.

"I think It's a wonderful idea my dear." Her friend was delighted to hear the suggestion. Ellie and her husband Floyd kept a summer home in East Hampton and could think of nothing better than to have her friend close to her. Truly fond of Colette, she was aware of her difficulties with Basil's insane jealousy and at times had feared for her best friend's safety. "After all, it is a mere stone's throw away from New York which is so polluted." She encouraged Colette to think more on the matter.

After she hung up Colette grew even warmer about the idea. The peaceful surroundings and fresh air in the Hamptons were very appealing and to tell the truth she wanted to remove herself from Basil's aegis. Shed the burden of each other and their inherited legacies. Imitate the butterfly emerging from the chrysalis and beginning its life as a free creature of splendor.

Shaking free of bitter memories, she made herself a cup of coffee and returned to the study tuning to the History channel on TV. A documentary about China's past was showing, reminding her of a shared interest with Basil.

They shared a mutual love of Chinese Antiquity and had enjoyed shopping together for pieces for the townhouse.

Colette's favorite rubbed lavender jade figure of the Goddess of Compassion, Quan Yin which she loved to pick up and caress. The jade urn where Chinese royalty would keep their jewels. One of the pieces that Colette disliked for no good reason had been a sword from the Han Dynasty, which Basil had hung on the wall in his study. Inexplicably, it had always given her the shivers.

Why she had been attracted to him despite the disparity in their ages. With mixed feelings Colette looked around the apartment in Sutton Place. Despite feeling uneasy she was finding it harder to leave than she had imagined.

Basil had approached her with an offer to buy her out of the townhouse and she agreed immediately knowing this was a sensible solution.

Whilst they enjoyed joint ownership, in the past twelve months, Colette had noticed Basil projecting a master of the house attitude. Now she wanted nothing to do with anything he had placed his stamp on and knew she could walk away with no regret. Shivering, she pulled a cashmere stole around her shoulders and looked around. Something that had been loved so much had become tainted and the sadness wrapped itself around her like the stole she pulled tighter around her body.

Chinese furniture craftsmanship reached its zenith in the Ming and Qing periods. Fine lacquered wooden furniture appeared as early as the Han dynasty and the technically structured and multi-decorated Song furniture laid the foundation for the further development and perfection of Ming and Qing furniture. Each age was marked by its own distinctive artistic style.

Basil's cousin Desmond had a friend in the British Embassy in Shanghai and they traveled to China, where he kindly introduce them to reliable antique dealers, who tutored and advised them, helping them choose pieces and even assisted in shipping them back to New York.

The trip had been magical and they would never forget the astounding sights they beheld. The Forbidden Palace was majestic, but bleak.

"How sad." Colette had held Basil's arm for comfort as she looked around the rather forlorn site and sadly commented. "It looks unloved, unlived in. What a crime removing all the beautiful court treasures and taking them to Taiwan. They belong back here, in their original home."

"Whilst I agree," Basil ever the pragmatist, had patted her on the arm and continued leading her through the rooms. "Mao may have very well sold it all to pay for the revolution and then there would be nothing."

"Oh, I don't think so." Colette did not agree. "Life had to change in China. The feudal system had to go. Mao carried out reforms that the west with their fear of communism has decried, but I have met Chinese from wealthy families who lost everything under the system. Strangely enough they defend his policies and say we do not understand them and gently rebuke us when we label it communism. I prefer to believe he would have re-installed the treasures in the palace and protected it. Anyway Taiwan should give it back now as it will be a source of enmity until it is returned."

Fifty miles northwest of Beijing are the thirteen Tombs of the Ming dynasty. Building had begun with the first Ming emperor in the fifteenth century and ended with the fall of the Dynasty in sixteen forty four. The sight had taken their breath away. Beijing was the national capital during the Ming dynasty, which had been re-established by Han Chinese coming from an agricultural society in Central China. The people believed in the existence of an after-world, where the dead lived a life similar to that of the living. The rulers ensured they would live in grandeur in this after world as they had in their lifetime on earth, so the tombs were as elaborate as their palaces, with clay soldiers to guard them.

They made their way Qi'an in Shaanxi province to where the Terracotta armies consisting of 6000 soldiers, horses, chariots and other necessities of war protected the tomb of the first Emperor, Qin Shi Huang on a scale never repeated.

It was an awe inspiring site which reflected Qin Shi Huang's terror of death in later years.

Born during the Warring Years, when seven warring states vied for control of the land, the king of Qin was the first to use cavalry in battle. The Han kingdom fell to him in 230 B.C. In 229, a devastating earthquake rocked another powerful state, Zhao, leaving it weakened. Qin Shi Huang took advantage of the disaster and invaded the region.

As these were the most powerful states alongside Qin, the existing smaller states were soon overcome and he unified them all to create China.

Basil greatly admired the ruthlessness of the Emperor. "He unified China, geographically and economically, by passing a series of major and political reforms which are still in force today. He standardized Chinese writing, bureaucracy, scholarship, law, currency, weights and measures. Bloody amazing when you consider previously they were all fighting each other."

"He was a cruel ruler who readily killed or banished those who opposed him or his ideas. Tens of thousands of peasants were conscripted from their homes and families to build this and the first version of the Great Wall of China," Colette remonstrated with him." They all died on the job."

"He did what had to be done. No pussy footing around. Look what he created." To emphasize his point Basil gestured with his arm towards the soldiers. "He also built a national road system to improve trade and standards axles of carts so they could use the roads.

"At an enormous cost in lives to the population," she admonished him.

"Plenty of them to go around." This did not worry Basil, an ardent admirer of his country's empirical achievements. "Great men cannot afford to think of the human cost when they set out to achieve great deeds. Misfortune befalls people everywhere." Basil shrugged it off.

"Like all tyrants he imposed his beliefs on others and suppressed hundreds of schools of thought. Ordered the burning of existing books to avoid scholars' comparisons of his reign with the past."

"Oh you and your books. Bread is the staff of life not sodding books."

Colette drew back as though he had struck her. "Books enrich lives. Tyrants fear them. All of them face death in the end. It is fitting that such a cruel and ruthless man sought magic elixirs from alchemists of the time to achieve immortality as he was terrified of death in later life."

"What you think all those uneducated beasts of burden would come back to haunt him in the afterlife. I hardly think so."

"Perhaps it was divine retribution that one of these potions killed him. He swallowed some fearsome concoctions trying to achieve eternal life."

"Oh for God's sake."

"The Qin dynasty he founded only lasted thirty five years under his rule and four years after his death."

"Because weak sons follow strong fathers. It's the stupid law of succession. He should have killed the weak son and heirs. I wouldn't hesitate. Look at the cost to the dynasty."

Colette gasped as he turned his back on her and nonchalantly walked away. Her heart beat in her breast like a captured bird beating against the bars of its cage. What did she really know of this man? This was a side he had not shown her before.

Upon reflection it was a sign of things to come as he began to shed his polished veneer and exposed the underbelly of his personality.

No fault for the failed marriage could be ascribed to him of course, so he quickly spread his venom once they parted casting aspersions on her hoping to smear her reputation. Naturally the fringe ghouls gathered at the feast. United in their insecurities, they picked over the bones of the relationship and stirred up the fires of bitterness and hatred against her for turning on one of their own.

As Colette didn't care about his inner circle, she shrugged and moved away without a backward glance or regret.

Wistfully she wandered through the apartment as her thoughts returned to the present.

Reaching out, she pushed the switch that opened the drapes covering the floor to ceiling windows and gazed out over the Hudson. It was still magical, despite FDR Drive slashing its way through the landscape like a scar on the soul of the city. Her eye was caught by the small park where she loved strolling, to sit in the pagoda and reflect.

Heaving a huge sigh she turned away from memories of another era, which she would never recall again without feeling disturbed.

"Pull yourself together," she berated herself.

Chapter 9 – Russia 2000

Arkadiy was en route to Moscow to meet with his Oligarch. After the turmoil of the meeting with Basil Mortimer, winning at Chemin-de-fer had been very pleasant indeed.

Almost as titillating had been the after game match in the Suite Garnier at the Hotel de Paris Monte Carlo with the four beautiful women. Between energetic romps in which he took part or merely watched, sometimes with the aged actor, he had slept, awaking again for another round of pleasure. Lines of cocaine were snorted from the surface of the pedestal coffee table in the bedroom and a fair amount of Krug champagne was consumed.

Rising only to descend the next evening, and make their way to Le Louis XV restaurant owned by the world renowned chef Alain Ducasse, they dined on exquisite food, before returning once more to continue the sexual recreation.

Satiated finally after two days, he had dismissed the women who were looking slightly worse for wear, but were delighted with the money and cocaine he had freely rewarded them with. Unable to resist he also purchased a remembrance for each of them. A small piece of jewelry set with, of course, diamonds. Nothing too elaborate of course but enough to please them. Neither the jewelry, nor his sexual prowess would be forgotten quickly.

It was back to the real world and business. Money would flow in again soon and it was Arkadiy's job to sell munitions to another desperado dictator in Africa or the rival factions in Palestine. The Middle East and Africa were Arkadiy's territory.

The ten year war in Yugoslavia had netted them a nice fortune while it lasted. His master had carved up the world and handed certain areas to three different henchmen, believing this allayed any uprisings in his fiefdom, whilst ensuring his hands appeared to remain clean.

For ease of delivery, he owned a fleet of cargo planes and a ship or two. Admittedly not sleek liners but he could convert them, at a moment's notice, into a different nationality, by running up another nation's flag and slapping a quick coat of paint over the vessel's name. To date they had been lucky but they had to remain on their toes to stay one step ahead of the odd dedicated, incorruptible, government arms investigators, who badly wanted to bag him for breaking embargoes of arms to certain countries.

Those were the only ones the Oligarch was interested in and from1988 to 1994, Arkadiy had moved enormous quantities of small arms and ammunition into Angola, Rwanda, Zimbabwe, Sierra Leone and the Congo, which made possible massacres on a scale that reverberated throughout world.

"Genocide." Arkadiy viewed the world with a jaundiced eye. "The world is overpopulated anyway." And he had turned his back on atrocities that had made the world sit up and take notice.

Turn on the television any night and the viewers could see a nice little war being fought somewhere in the world. Mostly with Arkadiy's Pakhan's undisputed assistance.

Afghanistan had been a good customer, but as America provided arms for the ruling elite, it was hard to compete against basement bargain prices. This still left the rebel warlords, who were a capricious, trigger happy bunch at the best of times remaining locked in a tribal culture that refused to unite in a common cause for their country, which was the undoing of Afghanistan.

Fanatics with short fuses and long memories had the ability to make even Arkadiy a little nervous and preferring not to push his luck too far he withdrew gracefully after a few massive sales, without revealing his intervention into their country. Being Ukrainian and having fought Russia since the breakup of the USSR, helped the rebel warlords overcome their hatred for Russians. But he could not say they were the best of friends.

Boarding the aircraft, he had taken stock of the female crew offerings, accepting them as his due. His gaze had lingered on the gorgeous blonde with legs he would love to see wrapped around his neck, who was looking after the first class cabin which was naturally Arkadiy's choice.

The trolley dolly would distract him nicely on the long flight, so he accepted the proffered glasses of champagne followed by ice cold shots of vodka and caviar. With his choice of female delights hovering around him anxious to satisfy his every need, the flight was passing by quite nicely. As long as she kept them coming the flight was tolerable and he had the typical Slavic capacity for hard liquor.

He had plenty of ideas about how she could fulfill every whim once they had had landed.

After the meal had been served Arkadiy switched on his laptop and perused the Internet articles of reputable current affairs magazines, most of which had an American bias.

Arkadiy sneered at America's interference in world affairs. Their tired old drum beat of keep out the Russian, at all costs had lost steam since the dissolution of the USSR.

The few teeth the Bear had left were mostly useful only for posturing and snarling. And so the US had turned from his embattled nation which had spent its energy flailing around and failing to hold onto the satellite countries they had annexed.

But what were they to do now that their enemy had disarmed himself? They had a massive war machine to feed. No major nation can afford to disarm their military in peacetime, to rebuild under threat. They were left with the choice of creating a nice little war, to keep the economy pumping as well.

After September 11, the Axis of Evil was born. A new enemy was at the gate. He recalled a recent conversation with his Oligarch who was an erudite, seemingly gracious intellectual. "The attacks on 9/11 were a godsend for that blundering, towel snapping cowboy, with a propensity to put his feet

on coffee tables, who has moved into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington." Behind the gracious veneer was a ruthless businessman.

"He may have saved his marriage when he overcame his alcoholism but at what cost to his country and the world?" Arkadiy remarked maliciously.

Arkadiy couldn't believe how powerless the American public were under their democratic system. "They're quick to accuse other nations' political candidates of stealing elections, yet are helpful in preventing one of their own doing so," he crowed with delight.

His master was a seriously discerning consumer of the best cognac and took a sip of the spirit he preferred to vodka and could afford. "Hmmm. He certainly lacks the charisma and oratory skills of Bill Clinton, who is a hard act to follow. He's had to resort to whipping up nationalistic fervor and frightening the hell out of the populace. After all, he not only has his father's oil partners to satisfy, he needs to keep on side with the armaments lobby group."

"It's a repeat of Bush Snr's presidency, dancing to the tune of the military and power brokers." Disparaging the unfortunate President of the United States felt good to Arkadiy.

"The Bush family are in oil, so their focus is on keeping the pipelines flowing for themselves and their cronies until the last drop has been leeched from the planet. The Seven Sisters are right behind them." His oligarch was on familiar terms with some of them but stayed away from oil.

"Getting rid of Saddam Hussein was simply an excuse to invade Iraq. Their real goal is the Iranian pipelines and I wish them the very best of luck. They'll probably get us all blown to hell, playing with those people."

"Well, they've turned Iraq into a charnel house and yet beat up on us over Ukraine and Chechnya.

"Do not underestimate that coven that now rules the White House. Whilst Bush may not have the support of the American Eastern and West seaboards, he carries the vote of middle America who accept without question his claims that God speaks directly to him. You would be forgiven for thinking we were still living in the 12th century as he launches a crusade against the Muslims with the fervor of an extremist Christian Jihadist. He understands them because he is driven by the same madness."

Arkadiy snorted. "His war on terror will line the pockets of himself and his family's cohorts, the American taxpayer will see no return on it. Neither will the industries of Iraq reap the benefits."

"No he will keep them poor. Mark my words, America will back the Shi'a into power this time around, after decades of ensuring they were kept down under Hussein's boot, because they are the largest group of people in the country and they feared an uprising."

Arkadiy looked thoughtful. "God help the Sunni Muslims when this happens"

"There will be another Arab diaspora. They will leave if they can." The Oligarch had no doubt about this.

While the alcohol relaxed his mind and the white noise from the jet fatigued him, Arkadiy let the past conversation continue playing in his mind.

"Who did the CIA think they were kidding with all that breast beating about terrorist groups. They originally created Al Qaeda to repel our country's invasion of Afghanistan. I was on the receiving end of that. Now an extremist in a turban is showing them up from his bat cave in the mountains." Arkadiy had thrown back his head and roared with laughter as his Oligarch smiled. "They trained him well."

"Precisely. When did al Qaeda cease being anything other than the dirty tricks arm of the CIA in Afghanistan?" he said quietly.

"It's very interesting," the Oligarch mused. "This is the most self serving presidency in the history of America, Arkadiy. That country tolerates this man's appalling blunders and utterances, but on the world stage he is a complete embarrassment to their country."

Arkadiy couldn't agree more. "But a dangerous one."

"This is good for us my friend." His Pakhan had stood up to refill his cognac balloon. Another?" He indicated the vodka bottle which was kept chilled in the silver ice bucket.

Arkadiy nodded and rose from the chair as his master handed him another ice cold shot. No discerning Russian would drink it any other way. "Their little Cartel is so self focused, that the good of the country comes a very poor second and the constituents are putting up with it. We will profit enormously from this incumbent's reign. They need a new market for their arms, so despite bleating about us selling off Russia's stockpiles they are waiting at the gates of some disenchanted country, or one their CIA has destabilized to keep their armaments industry profitable."

Which pleased Arkadiy no end. "They've made a mockery of democracy when they invaded Iraq, ignoring the UN resolution."

"Yes, and that other idiot from Britain, will not do either of them any favor. His country will fall into disrepute as well." The Oligarch sighed. "What men will do to feed their egos. Politicians are far more devious and malicious than the people they call crime families. Political aspirations do something to a man's mind. When the people get sick of the Iraqi war, they refocus on Afghanistan and South America to sell their armaments." He knew it would be precisely what he would do in their situation.

"Well, we'll give them a run for their money there. The drug cartels are always looking for good partners." Arkadiy grinned. "There's still business for us in Africa and Afghanistan. We'll fund the Taliban in Afghanistan, Pakistan will want arms, and in Africa the Coltran market is huge."

"The Bush family doesn't give a toss about democracy or America." His Pakhan had pointed out. "They are there to line their own pockets and their cronies, at the country's expense. You mark my

words, any USAID will find its way into the Beltway Bandits' pockets and not into any country's organizations it is meant for."

"I'm looking forward to the day it all blows up in their face. There's an old saying: When you point a finger, two are pointing back at you." Arkadiy was quite delighted with his wit. "It will come home to roost one day."

"We will benefit from their wars and their mistakes."

The Oligarch and Arkadiy had then wined and dined at length in the most exclusive club in Moscow. Arkadiy escorting a very beautiful woman on his arm and taking her into his bed. His Oligarch went home to his wife and children.

Arkadiy shifted his position on the seat, stretched and turned his shoulders from side to side to loosen up.

"We'll be landing in another half an hour," the pretty hostess told him as Arkadiy looked up, letting him no in no uncertain terms she would be happy to share his bed. Idly he moved the cursor over articles on different websites catching up with the latest scandals and goings on.

As far as Arkadiy was concerned the end justified the means, which made it simple to shrug off any criticism of his own dealings. Christ, he was Snow White compared to politicians and governments.

Whilst he had been lost in the past the air hostess had left him to his memories. Sensing an edge to his silence, she stopped by his seat, leaned forward and bestowing a dazzling smile upon him, asked if he would like another refill.

"Bring me a glass of champagne and pour one for yourself." Turning on the charm and letting his sensuality pour over her almost caused the poor woman to faint with joy. Smiling at his effect on her, he decided he would ask her out.

A tray appeared in front of him, containing his champagne, some Beluga caviar and crackers. Smiling at the attractive crew member as she let down the table in front of the empty first class seat next to his own and placed the tray on it, he handed his empty glass to her and took the brimming long stemmed one. Letting his eyes flicker over her from top to toe, he decided she was quite a dish.

When he boarded she had been attracted to his stunning good looks and if she was honest, a certain air of danger that surrounded him and hurried to accompany him to his seat, making sure he noticed her. The crew were always briefed on important guests to ensure they were well looked after, so she was well aware of his high profile. Briefly considering the possibility of a brief liaison, he winked at her before returning to the article in front of him.

'But it made us very wealthy indeed.' Arkadiy luxuriated in his circumstances as he drank his cold champagne which tasted like Cristal and he was quite the connoisseur. Spooning caviar from its container, he heaped some on the crackers which went somewhat to soaking up the alcohol he had consumed on board. No doubt about it he and his Oligarch knew a good thing when they saw one.

Turning away to look out the window he saw the landmass streaming below the approaching 'plane. Then his interest was caught by another article which proclaimed illegal arms merchants have no sense of empathy and were completely bereft of morals. Laughing uproariously he found humor in their next comment.

"In that respect, they are the one element of society that makes lawyers look good. That having been said, even illegal arms merchants have _some_ professional standards."

'Well of course we have damn it.' That tickled his fancy no end. 'We're professional ex-intelligence and ex-military men. Once we hopped into bed with rich entrepreneurs the floodgates opened wide."

"Hmm, That's something we never considered." A report outlined how both sides of the civil war in the Ivory Coast used profits generated from the cocoa trade to skirt UN sanctions. It went on to encourage the consumption of fair-trade chocolate.

As the Aeroflot carrier circled Sherementov Airport and prepared to land, Arkadiy closed down his laptop and packed it into the computer case. Quickly throwing down the last of his champagne he arranged a date with the attractive hostess. It never ceased to amaze him how many important men winging their way around the globe ended up marrying air hostess. He guessed it was because they were always accommodating, willing to provide them with their needs.

"Good training for future wives."

"Power and money were a fuck magnet alright," he reasoned, "and these girls knew who had it.

Alighting from the jet transition through customs was swift. The officers knew who was important and who was not. After all, the increased business since the removing of restrictions on travel had boosted profits enough to keep the fleet upgraded to an international standard. The company had hired British consultants to rebrand their image as a safe and reliable carrier, which was no mean feat given their history. Their fleet was now a mixture of Boeing and Lockheed as well as Tupolev and Ilyushin planes. When he thought of some of the poorly maintained craft he had flown in during his government employment, the hairs still rose on the back of his neck.

Hurrying to the limousine at the entrance, he left his luggage for the driver to load and installed himself in the comfortable leather seats of the Mercedes, his hand already reaching for the bar. With a two hour drive ahead of him, he needed extra libation.

Chapter 10 – Sierra Leone June 1998

As the helicopter hovered over the open pits of the mine, Ira could see the workers scattered like ants on an anthill across the scarred surface which resembled a moonscape. Digging furiously they surreptitiously peeked to see who was flying above them. They worked naked to prevent them from hiding a gemstone in their shorts.

"Little chance of that." Ira looked on impassively, noting the armed guards so were on surveillance, ensuring the workers who had been abducted from their villages and labored from dawn to dusk in temperatures regularly surpassing100 degrees Fahrenheit, were kept hard at it.

They began by digging enormous pits until they reached the mineral-rich gravel that lies beneath the surface. Standing in water up to their waists and sometimes submerging themselves totally, he watched them pull up the gravel in large basins, then rinse it, washing away mud and sorting the smaller rocks from the larger ones. Once the gravel was clean, the hunt for diamonds was on. By bending over a pool of water and sifting through the pebbles in square, wooden sieves in a process known as jigging.

"They trawl through the wash with their hands to find the rough gemstones," his escort told him pointing to the workers.

As he alighted from the craft, bending to avoid the rotor which was still whirring above him, Ira could see it was incredibly laborious, time consuming and back breaking work but there was ample slave labor after all. Most of the miners had been abducted from their homes and forced to work in the mine, particularly the young children, some obviously around 8 or 9 years. However, toiling in the soil was bearing little fruit and had become a dangerous occupation with the rebel armies excoriating the countryside.

'The human eye is still the best way to detect the stones.' Well, of course the warlord's right hand man would say that. Slave labor was infinitely preferable to expensive X-ray machinery. This was the man the warlord trusted to lead his ragtag army, composed of warriors who were untrained, undisciplined and unhinged by drugs and drink.

His President had gained control over Sierra Leone's diamond mines and was milking them as fast as he could to fund his ambition of seizing control of the country.

"It is a very primitive way of mining and from day to day can yield very little from the gravel. Generally, only a few little gems remain at the end of washing and sorting," his guide informed him.

Ira was aware that alluvial deposits were near the earth's surface, so anyone with a shovel, a bucket and a sieve could go into business. As there was plenty of slave labor to be had at gunpoint, it provided the rebels of Sierra Leone and neighboring countries with a very lucrative source to fund their dirty little wars. He was also aware that Sierra Leone's diamond deposits were of a very high quality. The Cartel was now in place and they were going to leverage every opportunity they could out of the highly flammable situation.

The rebel warlord's stepping stone to power in Sierra Leone had come about with the close alliance he had formed with the ruthless rebel chief of Liberia, who had this year seized the presidency in his own country. That suited Ira and the Cartel very well as they could kill two birds with one stone.

It was a sweet deal for the cartel, with Ira and Arkadiy often dealing directly with Charles Taylor of Liberia, whom the Kakoh had paid to keep his diamonds safe for him. He also helped deliver the weapons to Sierra Leone, which was a precarious operation at best as the airstrips were dodgy to say the least and few roads were fit to travel on. Cargo planes had to make the best of landing on tarmac main roads.

However they were preferable to Angola deliveries, where the roads were mined. Supplies and arms were parachuted in.

"We have doubled the number of workers recently." Kakoh's battlefield commander drew Ira's attention to the narrow mine shafts as they walked around.

Dynamite had been used to open shafts into the earth. Small framed men and children who looked to be between 8 and 14 years old to Ira, went down the shafts with torches secured to their heads by a band, some with pickaxes in their hands. Ira doubted the shafts were shored up properly and he had heard the number of casualties were high.

"Some of them are used to chip away at the rock face, others carry out the ore in sacks on their backs or heads, for sorting over there." Bokaire gestured towards a shack in one corner of the mine where a steady stream of human packhorses came and went. Ira estimated the sacks would weigh between 30 to 60 kilograms.

"The equipment you brought us has helped speed up the process. We have the sorting tables in there. Come and see." And he led Ira over to the building. "Duck your head," he instructed Ira.

Inside was a cacophony of noise. Tables with rollers had been set up and greased. The mined ore was tipped onto them. As water was sluiced down them, the grit and gravel was washed away, whilst the diamonds adhered to the grease, which would be cleaned off with ammonia or a good detergent.

These would pass through the sorting and washing process before being handed over to the guards, who would keep them secure in the safe, under pain of death, until the military officer who ran this mine came to collect them each week.

The stones were driven across the rebel-controlled border into Liberia. Along rutted dirt tracks to their first destination in the central town of Gbarnga where Taylor maintained a large farm, which was the stronghold for his Anti-Terrorism Unit.

The gems were then transported, often by helicopter, to the presidential mansion White Flower, in Monrovia.

"Rumor has it, he had a pregnant woman buried alive in the grounds as a sacrifice." Ira's stomach turned over as he related the story to Ami. "Apparently they stood her up in a pit between two oil drums and covered her with sand and then they killed a white sheep to appease their God."

"Be very careful around him," Ira warned Arkadiy. "Despite his being educated in America, Juju and superstition is still alive and well in that country. Besides, there are others waiting to take our place if we slip up. He's a sick piece of work."

Arkadiy had laughed triumphantly. "Don't worry, I'm on to him and that other mad bastard, Kakoh. God, you wouldn't think half these despots in Africa were educated at Sandhurst or in the States. What on earth do they learn there?" he said mockingly.

"There is the added danger of the president's psychopathic son." Ira had been forced to deal with the man in the past and preferred to give him a wide berth if possible. "The atrocities he runs around committing are outrageous. The populace is used for target practice before he heads off to command others, usually small children, to rampage and murder at will."

Ira's introduction to Kakoh had come about through Charles Taylor and he had dealt with him on several occasions. When elected to the Vice Presidency of SL, he had entrusted the diamond pipeline to Bokaire, who worked directly and in close collaboration with Taylor, as well as with the leader of the other rebel force in Sierra Leone, Johnny Koroma. With this power bestowed on him by Kakoh, Bokaire was considered one of the leading members of the Junta.

All players in the Junta were claiming to be ridding the mines in their countries of foreign control as they sold their country's soul to maim and murder.

Ira nearly had a seizure when he saw the aide gather the diamonds out of the safe and casually tip them into a mayonnaise jar, which was then secured in a small canvas satchel bag.

As they left the sorting area Ira looked around once more. Artisan mining is a primitive, non-mechanized method of diamond extraction, involving little more than hand-digging of river-bank mud, sand or gravel (alluvium), or from the table water level at mines, which is then sifted using hand-held sieves.

'Not much had changed since men first discovered the value of gold and gems,' he thought cynically.

Slave labor was plentiful, cheap and expendable. Now he was closer to the alluvial mining, he stopped to watch men dig down to the water table which would bring any rough gemstones to the surface when the hole filled up.

Standing in water up to their hips, they sifted the silt and picked out any of the rough diamonds. This played havoc with their feet which were constantly in water and fungus soon grabbed hold of, and dug in between the toes, spreading to the soles and up to their hips. Diamond-mining pits usually become pools of stagnant waters that are a dangerous source of waterborne diseases. The dirty water then penetrated the fungus and skin, causing irritations and infections.

"The workers look as though the water has caused some disease," he commented, noticing the eruptions on their bodies.

"Yeah, most of them have developed Buruli ulcers." The battlefield commander couldn't have cared less.

Buruli ulcers, first discovered in the Congo, was an indolent necrotic disease which killed the cells of the skin, subcutaneous tissue, and bone. It was the third most common mycobacterial disease of humans, after tuberculosis and leprosy. A slow, lingering, malignant horror.

"We'll keep them as long as they are useful." The aide shrugged.

'If they lived that long,' Ira kept his thoughts to himself, 'and didn't die from respiratory diseases, falls in the mines and the risk of losing limbs.' These were the usual pitfalls that miners in western countries with unions looking after their interests experienced. What hope did these people have, with no safety or health regulations?

"What treatment do they get for it?" he asked, looking at Bokaire suspiciously.

Medical assistance was sketchy at best. "Oh, we bring in our traditional healers and have some Dakin (sodium hypochlorite solution) to cleanse the wounds." These measures were largely unsuccessful.

"There's plenty more where they come from." Indicating the workers with a flick of his head, his complete lack of concern even got to Ira's stony heart.

Where less detached men would have shivered in their boots at the thought of the type of men they were consorting with, Ira maintained a cool head. After all, he had what they needed to feed their phobic ambitions.

"I've got no illusions about them though," he had confided to Ami. "Should our usefulness to them cease, they'll turn on us in a heart beat."

Basically he didn't care who was King of the Hill as long as the rebels kept purchasing arms off them and the flood had not dried up yet. At the moment the Cartel's arms trade had a two pronged delivery arm. Ira and Arkadiy just needed to ensure their heads remained securely on their shoulders as the militants were prone to lopping off rebel and civilian heads, as the mood took them. Child soldiers, stoned out of their tiny gourds, were just as lethal as the adults who manipulated them.

"You have to be pretty vigilant around them, the entire time. Juju and superstition is still alive and well in the sub-Saharan African nations."

Ami had more than a nodding acquaintance with the practice, when he had trained government troops.

For some obscure reason, Kakoh had insisted that Ira view the mines first hand on this trip. When flying in and out of Africa he would use a Belgium passport, kept specifically for this purpose so he could access Liberia via Turkey and Antwerp.

When required Ira could call on military engineers to advise how to get the most out of the mines. It was a small enough price to pay for remaining a preferred supplier with great rewards.

"We will fly directly to Monrovia with the diamonds now." Bokaire gestured towards the helicopter which they proceeded to board. "Our friend, Charles Taylor has allowed us the use of his helicopter to transport you." He reveled in the name dropping.

Ira nodded agreement. This was the part he least liked. One of them on their own was enough, two unstable egos could lead to an explosive situation.

Chapter 11 – Liberia 1998

"My friends." The handsome bearded and still lean Liberian, ubiquitous sunglasses in place, rose from behind the massive desk in his opulent air conditioned office and gestured for them to take a seat on one of the two handsome chairs on the other side. "Now, what have you brought me?"

Landing on a helipad built in the Presidential Palace grounds, on his way into the mansion Ira had noticed the new Chrysler jeep vehicles, available for the use of the President and his ministerial cronies in a country of abject poverty.

The gemstones twirled and spun as they tumbled from the mayonnaise jar where the battlefield commander had secured them, onto the desk in front of them. Avarice showing nakedly, the dictator of Liberia reached for them, choosing the largest one and examining it. "Obviously this is my personal fee for brokering this deal." His hands scattered the other diamonds on the desk.

"Of course, of course, Mr. President." The Sierra Leone battlefield commander acquiesced immediately. His demeanor was one of servility as he sought to appease the dictator. A little brown nosing hurt no-one's pride when the rewards were high. He also knew how to secret funds overseas and moreover his pride fed on the power.

"And you Mr. Lemontov?"

Ira focused his attention on the man behind the desk while keeping his guard up. He was perplexed. If the dictator had seconded all the gems for himself, how did they intend to pay him for the forthcoming order?

"What weapons can you provide for myself and my friend in Sierra Leone?"

"Whatever you desire Mr. President." Ira settled in for lengthy discussions where ego played a large part. "Just give me your list and we will fill your requirements."

Discussion centered around the type of weapons. Kalashnikov rifles, ammunition, grenades.

"Can you deliver some vehicles for us? My friend in Sierra Leone requires solid vehicles for use in his army."

"Of course Mr. President. What are you thinking of?" They would need to be serviceable to survive the horrendous red dirt road conditions.

## "We are looking to buy attack helicopters, **GAZ 2975** **Tiger** **personnel vehicles,** and anti-tank mines. You can get these for us?"

Ira listened intently. The order was even larger than the Cartel had anticipated. They had hit the jackpot this time. Satisfactory delivery of these requirements could result in greater orders.

"We can fulfill this order without any problems," he promised without hesitation.

"I know it is larger than we originally supposed. We will need shoulder rocket launchers as well." After negotiating price and delivery times, the deal was sealed with a handshake.

Satisfied, the President of Liberia rose and came around the desk to Ira, holding out his hand. "We have already done good business together Mr. Lemontov. Further orders will follow. Your country knows what it is like to be besieged by the enemy. We are alike."

Ira nodded, harboring serious doubts about the simile the despot was drawing. It would not do to show arrogance or weakness in this man's presence.

The President merely needed to raise his finger at an aide hovering close by, for the man to hurry to his side to hear his master's bidding.

"Pack these away in the suitcases that are waiting." He indicated the diamonds as he swept them up and placed them back in the silk bag.

Ira used the same method of transport himself. A false bottom in a suitcase containing soft toys stuffed with the diamonds. "Now." He turned to Ira. "Let us share a refreshing drink. Tomorrow I will board the executive jet my good friend Muammar Gaddafi has made available to me." He came round from behind the desk and led the way to comfortable armchairs placed around a large coffee table.

Obviously any customs control in Libya would be waived for the President of Liberia, for fear of offending their dictator. A cosy little arrangement, but one Ira felt eminently comfortable with as the odds were currently in his favour. Rumor had it that the president of Liberia had purportedly made a fortune from illicit trafficking of the gemstones, stashing funds in secret bank accounts in accommodating countries.

Ira's thoughts turned to a conversation he had with Ami after his last buying trip. "Although denying his complicity, he's unable to explain the glaring discrepancies in the amount of diamonds his country is exporting. Experts believe the amount is far in excess of that Liberia's mines can produce. In fact, some 100 times more."

"Well it's highly unlikely he could afford the Italian Villa he has just purchased on his presidential salary." Ami could smell out the tricksters and had. The Cartel knew the rumors were true.

There were certainly major benefits in being at the top of the totem pole. All this while his people ground out a living in one of the world's poorest countries.

"This is a large order Mr. President." Ira returned to his present business.

"Yes." The President merely nodded to the aide who left the room, returning with a small satchel which he opened and removed six sealed plastic pouches containing more rough diamonds.

"Here is your fee." Smiling at Ira, Taylor leaned forward and passed the pouches to him. "Most of the diamonds are 8 carats or over, there are 500 of them." Looking extremely satisfied with himself, he began to distribute largesse. "I have arranged for rooms to be made available for you and your men to assess and value the gems. If you are satisfied, and I know you will be, there are cartons for you to pack the soda cans in that I have made available for you, as you requested."

"Thank you Mr. President." Ira made sure the man felt as though the sun shone out of his rear end. "I appreciate your cooperation."

"I have also made rooms available for you and your colleagues to spend the night." The tyrant leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "Trucks are waiting at my villa for the journey to the airport where your Russian colleagues have made a plane available for you. Tomorrow I will journey to Libya. You can proceed to Turkey and on to Antwerp as you please."

The irony of using the planes Arkadiy's oligarch used to fly in aid to the beleaguered countries was not lost on Ira, rice, diamonds and weapons.

The Sierra Leone aide had not brought such a large supply of diamonds with him, so it was obvious that Kakoh relied on Taylor for safe keeping of the stones he smuggled out of his country. As the arms were purchased through Liberia, no doubt a substantial fee went to the President for his valuable assistance. From there it was a short journey to Libya and on to secretive bank accounts worldwide.

Once again thanking the President, Ira rose and walked out to the anteroom where his precious gems expert and accountant were waiting. He never traveled without them when negotiating the sales.

Now the diamonds were on their way. The two trucks carrying their precious cargo rumbled through the streets, lurching and careering from side to side as they endeavored to dodge the potholes. Pedestrians scattered in all directions, being only too aware they were as expendable as chickens or other livestock that regularly became road kill to these vehicles. Yes, it was every man for himself as they traversed these highways and byways.

Those lucky enough to own bicycles, dodged potholes, pedestrians, livestock and endeavored to avoid death by truck.

Roaring along in third gear, a journey in the badly maintained vehicles, on substandard roads, was a hazardous venture for motorized transport and pedestrians alike. The tiny dull stones, still in their natural state, were completely indifferent to the plight of humans. They nestled in their beds of cotton wool in the cans of soda, unaware of the furor they left in their wake. Their future lay ahead of them.

After sorting, cutting and polishing, some would end up adorning women's bodies and men's hands and ears, or they would be set in gold watches that fetched prices ranging from the price of an average house in South Africa and Eastern Europe to the deposit on a rich man's mansion in the West.

They would appear in advertisements on television and in glossy magazines; on the wrists, necks and hands of the stars of screen and sports; and wealthy businessmen draped the women in their lives with them. They would be purchased by those whose image was important to them.

The stones would twinkle and dazzle from earlobes, curl around creamy, long elegant necks, and some not so elegant or creamy. In fact some would be extremely tired and wrinkled having seen too many hours in the Mediterranean sun; or simply old age catching up with the owners.

Some were destined for the showcases of jewelers, who aimed their wares at the middleclass, or perhaps be purchased over the Internet. Without the overheads of retail stores, higher quality stones were offered to women and men whose parents could never have afforded such luxuries.

They would dazzle, as bracelets clasped around wrists, sometimes alongside other exotic colored stones.

They would appear in rings on fingers that ranged from elegant and dainty to claw like and wrinkled, or puffy and fat.

They would glitter, set in cigarette cases, jewelry and other boxes, or adorn the top of walking sticks.

They would proclaim to the world. "Look at me. I'm important."

Mistresses and wives of extremely wealthy men would awaken in the morning to find a bracelet or necklace alongside them on the pillow, for services rendered, and about to be.

Women and men would sell their souls for them. The envious would look on and plan to rob them. Sometimes it cost them their lives.

Some of the gemstones would be used to cut high precision instruments with which to make weapons of death and destruction

And so they slept innocently and soundly, secure in their hiding places, until they arrived at their final destination, ignorant of the power they held over the human beings that walked this earth.

Ira held on for grim death hardly daring to breathing. Not only because of the state of the roads, but the despot had assigned his psychotic son to accompany the precious cargo.

His reputation went before him. Ira had already experienced the dubious pleasure of being escorted to his father by him. His favorite black **GAZ 2975** **Tiger** **personnel vehicle** , the Russian equivalent of the American Humvee, roared through the streets, weaving crazily from side to side on the pitted streets, the unhinged son firing his Kalashnikov wildly at anything that moved, or didn't. Buildings on either side of the streets were pockmarked where previous bullets had hit them. It would have been a waste of time to repair them. This would have been a never ending task and no one was willing to manage the damage control. It was an incongruous procession to say the least.

Surrounded by bodyguards as volatile as himself, Chuckie was adroit at following in his father's footsteps, indulging himself of the most ingenious and devious ways to torture those unfortunate enough to come within his aegis. Allegations abounded of him tormenting his victims with melted plastic, electric shocks, scalding water and beatings with sharp metal rods.

Apparently one victim was placed naked in a pit, as stinging fire ants were shovelled over his body.

"Nice," was Ami's acid comment when Ira brought back the glad tidings. Nor was he above using the local townspeople for target practice. Ira supposed he had a cleanup crew following him wherever he went.

All had gone well on the journey. They had traveled along the pitted red dirt roads of Liberia to the airstrip where the cargo plane had waited. Flying food and clothing into the nations was the perfect excuse to return to Turkey and then on to Belgium, where outstretched palms had been well greased. The stones nestled snugly in their beds of artificial clouds, were on their way to Antwerp. Well greased palms would ensure the boxes were not opened at customs.

Personally supervising the loading, Ira watched over his shoulder until it was completed, waved goodbye to the lunatics and was very pleased to be leaving the asylum.

Chapter 12 – Sierra Leone/Antwerp 1999

The rough diamonds twirled and spun as they tumbled across the rollers on the washing tables. Water sluiced the grit and gravel from them.

The rough diamonds twirled and spun as they spilled across the table at the diamond cutting shop in Antwerp's diamond centre.

Ira knew each step of the delicate process would be made by a specialist, their great skill acquired through many years in apprenticeship to avoid any tiny mistake that can risk a gem worth thousands of dollars. Only experience could safeguard his treasures and bring out the true beauty of a diamond

He watched carefully as the planner selected the octahedral shaped rough stone and studied it carefully through a jeweller's loupe, to decide how it should be cut to yield the greatest value.

"This will yield a brilliant cut pear shaped diamond of 11 carats," the planner decided, after studying the stone for every details of its structure and marking where it should be sawn.

"Excellent." This was music to Ira's ears. He would return in a few days to view the final product, as the cutting would take several days, before it split in two after twirling and spinning on the lathe. Its brilliance would remain imprisoned until the long and precise faceting process released the fire from its depths. Each facet must be cut and shaped with precision and placed with perfect symmetry, to allow the diamond to explode with light.

Ira then kept the stone for three years, taking it out from time to time to admire it. The gem served to remind him how far he had come from humble beginnings. Finally he released it to a craftsman, well known for his wonderful designs, who had wrought magic.

The brilliance of the pear shaped diamond was breathtaking in its symmetry. Set in a beautifully wrought pendant necklace of cascading smaller diamonds, it scintillated as the light refracted from one facet to another then returned through the top of the diamond. In the display case of the most exclusive jewelry shop in Monaco.

He had turned down all offers to date. "It is waiting for its owner to collect it."

An elegant, handsome man in his 50's walked into the shop and after selecting the necklace, had it delivered to his magnificent villa in the principality.

Chapter 13 – Monaco's Bal de Rose 2003

The setting of Monaco's Bal de Rose in March, was audacious and exquisite. Each year, the ball features a unique theme, styled on a different country and this year Princess Caroline had chosen to Africa.

Bouquets of over twenty five thousand roses decorated the Salle des Etoiles in the Sporting d'Eté complex, with its retractable roof which would be opened later in the evening for the splendid cutting edge fireworks display.

Hosted by the Grimaldi Royal Family, the gala's attendees are a Who's Who of aristocrats and millionaires. Prince Rainier expressed his gratitude to those that attended, despite the invasion of Iraq by the United States, which had put a bit of a damper on the illustrious charity event for Princess Grace's Foundation.

Still, they all did their very best and worked hard at it. With its glittering guest list of royalty and A-listers, the society ladies had shimmied into their top name couture gowns, probably costing from $40,000 and upwards.

Twirling and spinning in their escorts' arms, the expensively attired beautiful people, wore sparkling jewels, usually stored away in vaults, which glittered and dazzled like millions of stars fallen to earth as their partners led them around the dance floor.

Dare we even begin to suspect, that many of the diamonds adorning hands, wrists, necks and ears, could possibly be blood diamonds, which had found their way into the stunning creations of the exclusive craftsmen, whom celebrities such as these entrusted their personal stylists to bedeck them, to reflect their own grandeur.

Both of the Grimaldi princesses had elected to wear black. Princess Stephanie looked extremely elegant in her black gown with glittering silver bands. In her ears were long drop diamond earrings, and a wide diamond bracelet encircled her left wrist.

Caroline, looking exquisite as usual, chose a slim black gown, with an overlay of two sheer black layers. Emerald and diamond earrings and what looked like a matching emerald and diamond bracelet glittered and sparkled. Smiling gamely she was photographed with her husband Prince Ernst, whose florid face, (one presumes from too much imbibing), clashed with her hot pink purse and red roses. However, the fellow did his best to uphold the family's honor with a shit eating ear to ear grin and unfocused eyes.

The proceeds of the admission price of $1500 per ticket benefited the Princess Grace Foundation, which was founded in 1964 by Princess Grace of Monaco, with the aim of helping those with special needs for whom no provision was made within the ordinary social services. Her daughter Caroline, Princess of Hanover, assumed the duties of President of the Board of Trustees upon her mother's sad death in 1983. Her brother Albert II, Prince of Monaco is Vice-President.

You'll be forgiven for thinking that Monaco's Rose Ball is an invitation only event, but the public is welcome to join this prestigious event, according to the website.

I dare say it would be a brave soul from the common herd, who would dredge up enough courage to crash this fashionable glittering event. Chances are, should they make it to one of the beautifully laid tables, their chances of being accepted by any glitterati with whom they shared a table were non existent.

It takes more than a $1500 entrance fee to gain admission to the crème de la crème of world society. After all, what could an intruder possibly have in common with people whose hedonistic lifestyle is composed of various social events such as this which served to reassure their e egos of their status in life. A sumptuous champagne dinner was served, which few women would partake of, making do with chain smoking cigarettes and downing the champers, to retain their svelte figures. To be followed by entertainment and dancing.

This year featured Waldemar Bastos, a talented musician from N'Banza Congo, a little town which was the first capital city of the ancient kingdom of Angola. His unique haunting melodies, with their elements of sub-Saharan African guitar pop, were skillfully entwined with Brazilian and Portuguese influences, where he had fled from the conflict ravaging his own country. The stark contrast of much joy and pain, imbued each of his songs, with a sensual and sensational statement.

Despite the influence he had on world music, this well respected musician remained humble and self effacing.

"They could have invited anyone, but it fills me with pride and happiness that they invited an unknown African artist instead of some superstar. It shows me that it was not the fact of being famous, but the recognition for an artist!"

The large blood diamond, shrouded in mystery, had made its way to one of the exclusive jewelers, whose clientele were the elite of European high society. Cut and polished by a genius, it was now a seven carat pear shaped gem of exquisite beauty, dangling from a pendant of lesser diamonds, wrought by a craftsman.

Dazzling anyone who dared to gaze upon its beauty, it nestled below the throat of a beautiful young woman hanging on the arm of the man thirty years her senior, at the Annual Rose Ball in Monaco. Cupping her elbow, he led her on to the dance floor and possessively placed his right arm around her waist. Holding her left hand in his right, as one of the social elite, Arkadiy's Oligarch smiled mysteriously as he twirled and spun her in a waltz as envious looks followed them. The diamond appeared to be a celestial body as its myriad refractions caught the light of the auditorium and released its fiery prisms, stealing the show.

The festivities went on long into the night and a wonderful time was had by all. Diamonds glittered on slender, often emaciated women, who deliberately starved themselves as fashion dictated, breasts enhanced with silicon after they had retreated to flat pouches.

One wonders amongst the gaiety, whether a single passing thought was given by the socialites who wore the mysterious gems with such pride, to the stark comparison between their lives and those of the emaciated men, women and children in villages and camps in Africa, foraging for enough to stay alive on.

Perhaps their sacrifice had contributed to ensuring these beautiful gems appeared at the Monaco Rose Ball. No-one could say with certainty it had not.

Chapter 14 – The Hamptons April 2006

Spring was busy bringing new life into the world. Summer was just around the corner. No reason to remain in New York with its oppressive heat.

Ellie had gone ahead of Floyd to open up their summer home in the Hamptons. 'Come and stay with me Lettie," she coerced her friend.

Colette considered her offer. She could work on her new novel just as well in East Hampton, her friends would always give her the space she needed while she looked for a house to rent.

It was time to move on. Store what she wanted to keep. Purchase a new home away from New York. Start from scratch and purchase new furnishings for a new house, which would reflect her own personality.

That was the great thing about being a writer. Your time was your own. However, a writer had to discipline themselves and put in the eight hours a day. Like any job, it took a great deal of time to produce a worthwhile book. Sometimes more. If the creative flow was on, you stayed with it. A successful author had deadlines to meet for their publisher. An entire promotional plan was built around the book being completed on time.

Her chosen craft was a solitary path that could be difficult and lonely but for those that loved and breathed the written word, it was manna itself. If you wanted to be a success in this business you had to be committed.

Her latest manuscript was due and thanks to Basil's intrusions and prying it was only two thirds completed. The deadline was late July so the book could be released the first week of December in time for the Christmas sales. Space was already booked in the retail stores. As she would need to work with her editor before final revision and printing, she could not miss her deadline.

Ellie and Floyd were insistent she should stay on in their home when it was time for them to return to Cambridge, where Floyd was Professor of Middle Eastern Studies at a small private University. Their home was hers until she found her own. No need to hurry.

In the meantime she would do a little retail therapy before she moved out of Manhattan forever.

Chapter 15 – Manhattan April 2006

Taking the elevator down to the ground floor, Colette stopped for a word with the one of the doormen of the building, who was on the day shift. He was a sweet man and she would miss him.

"Hello Arnold," she greeted him.

Arnold was fond of the lovely woman who always had time to pass a kind remark to him and enquire after his family. Many others simply passed him by as though he did not exist.

"Good morning Mrs. Mortimer, how are you today?"

"I'm fine thank you, but I need to tell you I will not be Mrs Mortimer for much longer. I am selling the apartment and moving out."

Arnold's eyes widened. "Oh I am sorry to hear that, I will miss you."

"And I will miss you too Arnold, you've been very kind and helpful to me."

"It's easy to be kind to someone as charming as you," he responded, smiling widely as he moved to open the door for her.

Stopping to gaze at the trees daintily dancing in the breeze she breathed in the Hudson and decided it really could do with some help from a celestial air freshener. Nevertheless she loved it. Strolling peacefully down Sutton Place to 1st Street, she turned into 53rd Street and walked towards 5th Avenue where the famous jewelry store Cartier's was located.

"Good afternoon Madam can I help you." One of the salespeople moved with alacrity to assist her.

"I would like a pair of diamond studs thank you."

"Certainly. Please come this way." Leading the way into a private room, the salesperson invited Colette to seat herself. "I will be pleased to bring you a selection."

Returning to the room with two trays of diamond studs, Colette made a selection and tried on four or five pairs,

"These will do fine." She smiled at the woman and handed her Visa card to her basking in the warm cocoon of privilege.

"Would you like us to deliver these madam or will you be taking them with you?"

"Could you please deliver them for me?" Colette responded and final details were made.

Moving out of the place of privilege she exited on to 5th Avenue. Suddenly an arm thrust a piece of paper in front of her as a woman excused herself. "Please read this," she was asked politely.

Taken aback, Colette took the paper in her hand.  
"I would like you to consider the life of misery and horror that the people in the countries who mine diamonds experience so you can wear a bauble around your neck or arm, or in your ears."

"I'm sorry," Colette stammered, surprised at being accosted. "What has this to do with me?"

"The tragedy is that you are not even aware of the inhumane practices in these countries and the appalling lives these people live. Please read the pamphlet." Large brown eyes implored her not to turn away. "Please don't throw it into the nearest wastebasket."

Colette was flabbergasted. It had never entered her mind there was a huge price someone had to pay so she could bedeck herself in baubles.

Considering the situation she was struck by the woman's sincerity." I promise I will read the pamphlet."

"Thank you, that is all I ask," the woman responded and moved on.

Disturbed Colette went into the nearest cafe and after being seated, she ordered a coffee and looked at the pamphlet as requested. What she saw shook her to her very core.

ARE YOU AWARE OF THE COST TO HUMAN LIVES

TO BRING YOU THOSE DIAMONDS YOU WEAR?

A picture speaks a thousand words sprang into her head, as she looked aghast at photographs of emaciated Africans, standing in water and mud with pickaxes, whilst guards stood by with rifles.

A second photograph showed children of around seven or eight years old, inside dangerous looking caverns, picking at walls with pickaxes. The walls had no shoring to make them secure and other children were caught by the camera, climbing up a rickety looking ladder with bundles tied to their backs.

A third photograph showed a makeshift factory of sorts where diamonds were obviously being culled from the debris.

A fourth photograph showed two men at a table in the middle of nowhere with gems on display, whilst men armed with rifles stood around them. A truck stood in the background. "Weapons for blood diamonds." Read the caption.

It was obvious to Colette that these photos had been obtained at great risk.

Please visit our website www.blooddiamondsandthecostofhumanmisery.com

Ignoring her coffee she called for her bill and hurried home to open her laptop to find out more.

What she read about the inhumane blood diamond industry and the incalculable misery it left in its wake, burned into her mind and soul.

Graphic photographs of boy soldiers with guns rampaging through villages raping and murdering the women and children, many of whom were desperately ill and unprotected as the men had been taken and forced to work in the open cast mines, met her astonished eyes and slammed into her guts with the force of a pile driver, bringing the reality of blood diamonds into her comfortable life.

Pity turned into anguish which quickly became remorse and then changed to something far more urgent, a call for action, and she wondered aloud, "What can I do to help stop this?"

Chapter 16 – The Hamptons May 2006

One month passed. A world away from the grayness of her life with Basil, Colette felt as though someone had taken an artist's palette and brushed broad strokes of color back into her life. Sitting outside a café on Main Street in East Hampton in the sun felt great.

The town had begun life in the early seventeenth century as a farming village and graduated in the 1800's to become a resort for the wealthy.

With its greens, windmills and the Town Pond preserved in their original state, the area still retained the old village atmosphere. The rustic and the sophisticated modern, live together quite amicably.

"It's like stepping back in time and goodness knows I've been there enough recently. I know I'll be happy living here." Colette felt so relaxed, quietly sipping her coffee and taking in the surroundings, when someone stopped by her table.

"Hello Colette. How's the house hunting coming along?"

Shading her eyes against the sun with her hands, she looked up startled, recognizing the voice that was the last one in the world she wanted to hear. Basil was standing there. "What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded, frowning at him. "How did you know I was here?"

"Not hard to guess you'd be with your closest friends," Basil said mockingly. "Thought I would take a spin out and see how you are doing." Looking so self satisfied and grinning like the cat that had scored the oysters someone was silly enough to leave on the countertop, he pulled out a chair without waiting for an invitation and sat down at the table.

Colette could have happily wiped the smile off his face.

"Thought I would partake of a cup of coffee together and mend bridges."

"Mend bridges!" she repeated acidly. Here he was stalking her again. Icy fingers of dread seeped their way down her spine. "Are you out of your mind Basil? I don't want to have coffee with you. We've settled up and I want you to stay out of my life." Moving her hand up to her eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun, a deep melancholy settled around her head at the sight of him. She felt it move through every cell of her body and lodge itself deep in her soul.

Didn't the man understand? It was over. "No." she shook her head as she refuted his power to depress her. Moving to gather up her things to leave, she lashed out when he put his hand on her arm to stop her.

"Take your hand off me Basil," she demanded and swatted it away.

"Look, I just want to be friends." Removing his hand, he stood up to block her way.

"Well, I don't," she spat at him. "I don't intend to spend the rest of my life taking knives out of my back."

"Oh come on Colette," he pleaded, holding out his palm to her.

"After your poisonous campaign against me? Not only in your own stupid shallow circles, but ringing my friends and whining about how badly I had treated you."

"I didn't mean it. I was upset. Come back to me and we'll make a fresh start. Things will be different you'll see." Damn, why was he groveling to her the dark side of his nature whispered to him? Because when she returned he would subtly punish her in ways she never imagined possible, then he would cast her aside when he was done with her.

Shaking with rage at the intrusion on her privacy, she stood and gave vent to the frustrations of the past fifteen months. "I don't give a damn how upset you were. My friends were well aware you treated me abominably and were appalled at your calls. For God's sake, my best friends changed their phone number as you nearly drove them insane." Icicles dropped from every word she launched at him. "As for calling my publishers and agent. What was the point? Where the hell was your pride?" As she watched, a dark cloud passed over his face and his eyes filled with malice.

"Now get out of my way." She pushed past him. "You're lucky I don't sue you for harassment.

His face twisted into the mean look she had come to know so well. "You'll bloody well regret this," he threatened raising his voice.

"Not as much as I regret our marriage." Desperate to get away from his spite she jammed her sunglasses on. "Stay away from me Basil. Stay out of my life or I'll take out a restraining order against you and that will not sit well with your precious image."

"You bitch. If you try that, I'll make sure you never work in New York again."

Colette was briefly taken aback by the force of his words. Recovering herself she retorted. "Don't be so bloody stupid." What had she ever seen in this man? How could she have been so blind?

"You can't touch me. I'm successful and my publishers wouldn't give you the time of day. That's your problem. Living for your precious image and not for life itself. No wonder, you're so damn unhappy all the time."

With that salvo she walked inside the restaurant to pay the check, feeling his cold and unforgiving eyes rake her back. When she returned outside he had gone and she breathed a sigh of relief.

Chapter 17- Colette

What the hell had attracted her to Basil? She had grown up in Connecticut in relatively middle class affluence.

Her mother had been a teacher and her father in senior level management. Vice-President of this and that during his life. Never making President or CEO level, which had frustrated him.

Believing he had done his bit for his country in Vietnam, this ex-US Airforce pilot had struggled to be accepted by society upon his return from the unpopular conflict. What option did he have for God's sake? If he had attempted to avoid the war, he would have been hounded, jailed and despised by the same society that rejected these veterans upon their return. Bitterness was their lot and many of them used alcohol or drugs to deal with the public animosity and humiliation they felt.

The soldiers fought a war like no other that Americans understood. One so perverse it was beyond their comprehension. Having been trained to take a strategic position and hold it, they could not understand when they were constantly ordered to withdraw and the cost was high.

Some of them turned bad and committed atrocities. Many of them gotten themselves killed. Others turned to the drugs which were handed out like candy, as they became confused over the tactics they were ordered to perform. Unused to guerilla warfare the US military tried to adopt the highly successful North Vietnamese tactic of feign retreat, then ambush the enemy while being pursued, which transformed modern warfare.

From the air in their Marine Corps helicopters, they were ordered to napalm enemy soldiers and civilians. Sometimes their own soldiers became victims of so called friendly fire, a misnomer if ever there was one. To escape from the nightmares he carried with him he turned to alcohol and withdrew from human contact, as he drove himself deep inside. The effect on his family was devastating.

Oh he had ribbons and a citation to prove his courage. Named a hero at the ceremony which took decades to acknowledge the Vietnam heroes, he never talked about it before or after. All they knew was a battalion of soldiers had been ordered to insert troops into battle quickly, to attack North Vietnamese troops in the central highlands of South Vietnam. These were early days and the enemy was waiting in large numbers. Unable to shoot back, as the helicopters didn't have the machine guns that later would become standard equipment, one of his crew was shot and died.

In spite of the danger, he returned numerous times to bring in ammunition and bring out the wounded, switching helicopters several times because of damage from enemy fire. He never talked about it afterwards, just shrugged it off, remembering the ones he airlifted out in body bags. Instead he sought solace in a bottle and buried his emotions deep inside, in case the stopper came out of the top and the demon genie erupted, causing more mayhem than he could deal with.

Rewarded with corporate positions these men were never expected to head up Fortune 500 companies. He was a dealmaker where corporate social obligations encouraged the use of alcohol, to woo the customers with business luncheons and dinners and as he was already alcohol dependent to get through the day, the impact drove him further from his family. Obligatory membership in country clubs were handed out, for the inevitable game of golf with clients. The nineteenth hole where they buddied up and tied up the deal ensured meant more alcohol to fuel the flames.

Corporate life was one he could handle. In some ways replacing the camaraderie of his military service. But he could not allow himself to reach out, or be touched, by emotions.

Normal family life in middle affluent American society. What the hell did this mean? Damaged parents dealing with the nightmare of their past didn't make for healthy relationships. Expectations of their children often unrealistic as they strove to better their offspring's lot. College was mandatory with often the choice of career chosen for them. All done with good intentions.

Colette majored in Literature and English studies and everyone expected her to follow in her mother's teaching footsteps, but succeeding higher. Her future was mapped out, attain an associate professorship at a respectable university, marry the nice executive boy who was a member of the country club... and so on, and so forth.

However Colette had a mind of her own, upsetting all their plans. Her parents were not pleased when she announced she intended to become a struggling writer. Packing her bags and laptop, she headed for New York to share an apartment on the lower East side.

Supporting herself by firstly working as a shop assistant in Bloomingdales, she wrote at night about life in the Big Apple as she thoroughly enjoyed the city and what it had to offer. Naturally her parents went ballistic at her choice of careers but when she moved up to the position of Assistant Buyer with one of the well known fashion houses, they began to believe she might come to her senses after all. Perhaps the considerable increase in salary would tempt her.

Nevertheless Colette pressed on and a couple of her short stories were published in high profile magazines. Rejection of her first novel did not stop her.

Finally success. Her comedic romp through the insane world of high fashion taken from firsthand experience became a best seller and established her as a successful author. Two successive novels were well received, ensuring she became well established and financially independent.

New York provided a well rounded social life and in the ordinary scheme of things her path would never have crossed Basil's. Attending a small gallery opening at a showing for an artist a friend, they had met in front of one of the paintings.

"Damned if I know what it means." The man standing next to her in front of the painting, cocked his head to one side and studied it.

"I'm not so sure myself." Colette turned to look at the tall man with the English accent. "I'm a writer which is how I communicate with people. Harold (her artist friend) expresses himself through his painting." She gestured to the abstract in front of them.

"Yeah, we hear a lot of that, but I'm not taken in. I'm a traditionalist." Basil turned and appraised her, liking what he saw. A tall, slim redhead, in her early thirties he judged, with large emerald green eyes and a wide smile. "In my world of finance the world is black and white. If I look at a painting, I want to recognize what I see. A horse is a horse, a house a house, a ship a ship, the captain on board, guns blazing, or just sailing under the sky, all this I can relate to. All these blobs of color leave me cold."

Colette cocked her head to one side and coolly met his gaze. "You're pretty black and white yourself aren't you?"

"Yep," he grinned. "No shades of gray with me. I know what I want."

"Shades of gray soften life's outlook." In her novels Colette used colors to soften scenes, believing they would be inordinately dull in black and white. "People live behind masks of black and white afraid of showing who they really are."

"You could be right," he contended. "Would you like to go out with me?"

"That's pretty black and white." Colette stood back and appraised the tall, slim man standing before her. Perhaps that was a clue to his taste in paintings. Ancestral home with landscapes hanging around the baronial walls perhaps?

Judging him to be in his early fifties, brown hair graying, dressed in his Brioni suit he cut a fine figure.

"Look at the painting." Bringing their attention back to painting, with a sweep of her hand she encouraged him to look further. "Colors can be just as stark as your black and white. Look how subtly Harold has woven in softer hues to mute the stronger colors. See he even uses shades of gray to soften that starkness. See how those grays subtly reflect the light in the black sworls." She pointed to the painting.

"Damned if I can make head or tail of it even though we have them hanging around our offices. I still don't understand what the hell he's about. In my business we don't stuff around. What's your answer?" Basil countered.

Colette laughed. "Let's gather Harold up and congratulate him on his showing, then your friends if you came with some, and go out and have supper and some champagne. You can discuss abstract painting with Harold and his meaning of life."

"Smart move. Safety in numbers. Okay, I'll gather up my partner and we'll go on somewhere. Am I allowed to know your name now?"

"Sure," she responded. "It's Colette."

"After the French writer?" He looked at her quizzically.

"Yes."

"I'm Basil Mortimer." And he held out his hand to shake.

Then he moved off to find his partner and Colette wandered off to locate her artist. The evening had been exhilarating to say the least, as Basil and Harold defended their own positions on the interpretation of art.

This had been the beginning. Turned out he was senior partner with a private investment bank based in the UK, but with branches in the US and also in Europe. After they had become a couple, he had often boasted to her of how his corporate clients avoided massive taxes. Despite this rather vain streak, Colette had found him good company with a dry sense of humor.

His wife had died four years before and he obviously had too much spirit to want to live alone and had already had one affair. Intending to move cautiously as she had built a stable, secure life she enjoyed and guarded jealously, she held back for a while. Many suitors had suggested marriage but Colette had held back, not willing to commit, her past still haunting her. She liked being independent and answerable to no one. It would take a pretty special man to interest her in sharing his life.

So why on earth had she chosen Basil and how had she gotten it so wrong? Never mind the damn pheromones. Something else had driven them together.

After much searching over the years, she had concluded reincarnation was the only philosophy that made sense to her. One random life just didn't seem to cut it. Not when she viewed the appalling lives children were born into. Neglect, mental, emotional and physical abuse. Some so horrifying it was beyond comprehension.

Gentle, seemingly unconnected nice people suffered unbelievable torment, rape, torture, murder. Surely it wasn't luck of the draw that determined these horrors were visited upon them. Perhaps this was why she had become a writer, to investigate and tease some sense out of this life.

Perhaps there was a strand leading from another life to this that had brought them together.

The gentle philosophy of Buddhism with its belief in reincarnation attracted her It appeared to make more sense that former life partners would meet again to work out their differences if their previous lives had been skewed, so they could all get on with wherever the hell they were all going in the end, which she doubted was some fluffy cloud in a place called Heaven.

A few years of therapy hadn't resolved all she had hoped. There were still siren calls from her upbringing. The emotionally unavailable father who found it easier to be closer to a bottle of scotch and business peers than his children and a mother who shut down also to protect her own feelings, had not been the best role models of how to bond and form close personal relationships. However neither had she suspected she was ripe for an emotionally dependent, successful boardroom bully.

It was an exhausting business being emotionally challenged. How could she overcome her legacy? A bitter one that made her cautious and contributed to the avoidance of marriage. Apparently her legacy lived on. Her ever constant companion. Blinding her to the reality of her attraction to Basil.

Without a script to follow, unsuccessful relationships floundered on the rocks like shipwrecked galleons that were unable to pull down the sails in time and halt the inevitable wreckage.

Was there another level the Game of Life was played out on? Scarred and wounded now, emotionally exhausted, could she protect herself from Basil in the future and more importantly, future relationships?

It was too much to deal with at the moment so she parked the problem in the meantime.

Chapter 18 – The Hamptons May 2006

"I can't believe the cheek of him." Sitting in the drawing room with a glass of white wine in her hand, she was still furious as she discussed the incident with Ellie and Floyd.

"Colette, I think you should be careful." Floyd frowned. "I don't think Basil is going to let go that easily. It took you months to get him to accept you were serious about a divorce. He tried his best to change your mind with promises that were impossible for him to keep."

"I know Floyd, don't worry. It's the ex-spook in you darling." Floyd had been with the CIA for twenty years, as a cultural attaché in Turkey. "You're so protective and I really appreciate it, but I'm a big girl and I knew that at the time. People don't change and we don't have the right to expect them to." Colette moved around agitated and leaning forward to emphasize a point, grasped the wine glass between two hands. "I just don't know how he kept up the façade for the twelve months before we tied the knot. It was like a veil was lifted the moment we were married."

"Even on our honeymoon in Paris, I began to notice the jealousy. I would never have considered marrying him if I had even suspected he was like that."

"Time for bed I think." Ellie stood up and gathered up their glasses. "Anyone for more drinks?"

"No thanks." Floyd and Colette declined as they each stood up.

Ellie moved towards Colette and put her arm around her friend, as they wandered into the kitchen to stack the glasses in the dishwasher. "My God, It's like one of your novels Lettie." They had been friends since college and Floyd was now the Professor Colette did not become.

"I'm certainly thinking about changing and writing a thriller. You're right, I could base it on my life, but I'm not going to." What a tower of strength her friend was and Colette hugged her appreciatively.

All their friends had been astounded with Ellie's acceptance of Floyd's disappearances for months on end when he was with The Company. Often they were allowed no contact at all. God knows what he had gotten up to in that time but Ellie loved her man and knew he needed his hearth and home when he returned from his mysterious missions. She provided him with a haven to return to.

They had two fine children; a son in college and a daughter preparing for her first semester. Ellie had absorbed herself in raising these two replicas of themselves.

Two years ago, acknowledging his family needed him near them and that he had given enough of his life to his country, Floyd had resigned and taken up the Professorship he had

been offered. Now they lived an idyllic life in Cambridge, near the University and the Hamptons was their escape. Annie had inherited her parents' home when they had died in a motor accident. It had been in the family for a couple of generations, long before it became so expensive the average American could not afford to buy there.

Ellie was the most marvelous cook and had built an incredible reputation catering for dinner parties and business functions. There was talk of a TV show and then of course the cook books would spin off. Colette was so happy for her.

Climbing the stairs together, after a good night hug they separated and headed off to their respective bedrooms. Needing to breathe fresh air to get the unpalatable scene with Basil out of her being, Colette walked over to the French windows, which she had left open to cool down the bedroom.

Stepping on to the balcony that ran the length of the front of the house, she idly glanced down the road in the direction of a car door slamming shut. As she watched the dark green Jaguar XJ6 take off at speed she froze. "Oh God, that's Basil's made in Britain machine."

Realization swamped her, he was at it again. Shaking, legs barely holding her, she lurched back into the bedroom, closed the doors firmly and stumbling to the bed threw herself face down.

"I can deal with this," her distraught mind reassured her as her whole body trembled. "I'm stronger than this." After the problems during their marriage she had wondered in the months since they separated, if this was going to continue. "Damn him," she told herself firmly. "He's not going to ruin my life."

Rising she walked into the bathroom and unscrewing the lids off lotion bottles she began the cleansing and moisturizing routine which normally soothed her. Walking back into the bedroom she picked up her mobile phone and dialed Basil's mobile number. When he answered, she couldn't hold back. "If you ever stalk me again, I'll get a restraining order on you and make sure all your old boys' network knows."

"What the hell are you talking about?" he snarled, dismayed she had caught him out.

"Don't bark at me, you stupid bastard." Colette yelled, finally losing all control. Basil had finally pushed her too far and now he had her hackles up. "You could have had enough sense not to park under a streetlight so I could read your number plate. You're so damn image obsessed, you had to have that stupid personalized plate which identifies you by satellite from Mars."

Basil knew he couldn't counter that one, so went into counterattack. "I'll do what I please. Go where I like. And if you think you're getting off lightly after making a fool of me in front of all my friends, you're wrong."

"Friends." Colette was furious. "You bloody lot don't know what a friend is. You're so busy crawling up each other's backsides, you don't have time to stop to make friends. You only use people and pray the ones you think are important will find some use for you." Cutting the connection she flung down the phone on the counterpane as Ellie knocked on the door and called out, "Are you okay?"

Muttering furiously Colette threw the door open and drawing her inside told Ellie the story.

"Oh God Colette." Her friend's face betrayed her concern. "I don't want to leave you here when we return to Cambridge. I won't let you go back to an apartment in New York. Come back with us.

"He's not going to control my life anymore." Much to her chagrin he could still upset her. Wiping the angry tears with the back of her hand she spluttered as she reached towards a tissue box on the bedside table, pulled one out and wiped them away. "I'm not having this. This is where I want to settle and he's not stopping me looking. I'll go to the police in the morning and get a restraining order."

"Sounds sensible but you know what he is like and his pride and dignity are at stake. Would that be more dangerous?" Ellie was concerned. The past couple of years they had seen firsthand what Basil was capable of. Colette had fled to them more than once to escape the suffocating jealousy and control. Much to their amazement he had the gall to follow her to their Cambridge home, knocking on the door and demanding she return to their home at once. When she refused to speak with him and Ellie had firmly told him he could not come in, he had pestered them repeatedly with phone calls, until they were forced to finally change to an unlisted number at great inconvenience to themselves.

Colette hated the impact her crazy relationship had on her friends life and was determined it was not going to happen again.

"Stay here in the house, well away from him. This is a perfect place for you to complete the manuscript for your new novel. He can't keep running out here."

"Look I'll rent somewhere here while I'm looking around to buy," she reassured her concerned friend.

Ellie wasn't happy about this decision. "You know you can stay with us so we can keep an eye on you."

"I'm a big girl now," Colette reassured her friend and smiled. "Honestly, it will be alright. He won't know where to find me when I rent down here"

Ellie mulled this over. "I'm not so sure about that. Please come back to Cambridge with us at the end of the summer break," she pressed.

Colette put her arms around her friend and held her tight. "You are the dearest person in the world to me and I adore your family but I will not have Basil making a nuisance of himself again."

"Look Lettie, who was there for me when Floyd was playing spooks in God knows where for twenty years, and I was beside myself. You, that's who." Drawing back she looked at her friend's tearstained face to emphasize her point. "Truly, I would not have made it through some of the missions, if you had not been there to talk to. For God's sake, you even flew out to see me in Turkey two or three times. This is the least I can do for you now. Floyd has friends out there that he can use to control Basil," Ellie persisted.

"No, I will never place Floyd in that position." Colette looked into her friend's eyes. "Never, you understand. I have to live with the consequences of my choice and I will be able to do so." Behind her reassuring smile she wondered if she should be afraid for her life.

"Then stay here when we leave." Ellie was unconvinced.

"He knows where I am here darlin' heart," Colette said. "I'll rent something and get an unlisted phone number whilst I look for a home here. The best place to hide is out in the open. Your dear ex-spook husband told us that once. He will not know where I am then."

"You might be right." Ellie said miserably. "I still want to talk to Floyd about it."

"And I forbid you," Colette insisted fiercely. "He's left that life behind and deserves his peace." Colette firmly took Ellie by the arm and led her to the door. "Go to bed and hold your dear man tight. I will be fine."

Chapter 19 – Ukraine 1959

Cossack blood ran in Arkadiy's veins and he was very proud of it. Whilst their origin is the subject of scholarly dispute, it was widely accepted they were descended from the Katars.

He was born in 1959, in one of the oldest Don Cossack stanitsa's (villages), Veshenskaya, which was the home of the famous Russian writer Mikhail Sholokhov, whose novel Quietly Flows The Don was a Russian classic. While still quite young, Arkadiy, who belonged to a genuine Don Cossack family, had devoured the book and been profoundly affected by its story.

The Cossacks had served Russia well but their history was littered with betrayals by the Russian leaders. Cossacks have long appealed to romantics as idealizing freedom and resistance to external authority and their military exploits against their enemies made them heroes. For others they were a symbol of repression because of their role in suppressing popular uprisings in the Russian Empire, as well as their assaults against Jews.

Indoctrinated into the fabled history of the Cossacks by both his father Aleksandr and his two uncles, he worshipped with them at the shrine of their ancestors. Weary and haggard from their miserable lives of suppression and collectivisation, his kin along with the men of the village, clung desperately to the myths and deeds of the past, which gave them a reason to go on living.

"The Cossacks were touched with the breath of God," they would sigh in unison. "Our souls and the land are one."

"Козаки́, Kozaky(Cossacks)." They would proudly proclaim to him as a child, whilst pounding their fists on their chests, to drive it deeper into their own shrivelled hearts. "We are from the mighty member of military communities. Our ancestors were protectors of towns, forts, settlements and trading posts. We policed frontiers and the Russian Army would not be what it is today without us."

As a child, he had loved poring over the treasured old photographs and even paintings which would be carefully removed from hiding places. "The Communists would have destroyed them all," they bitterly proclaimed as they handled them reverently.

"Look how splendid we were." Picking Arkadiy up and seating him on their knees, one by one they filled his mind with daily rations about his wondrous legacy. "We protected the Tzars and their families. We struck fear in the hearts of their enemies," his uncles would proclaim as they pointed to the weapons used by Cossack cavalrymen. The sabres, or shashka, and long spears.

"This was your grandfather," his father Aleksandr would say proudly, pointing to a photograph of the tall stern man dressed in the traditional Don Cossack dress uniform in the era of the Revolution. A Voiskovy Starshyna (Lieutenant Colonel), he had carried on a proud tradition in their family.

Seated on a bench outside a wooden building, he was an extremely handsome man with deep penetrating, almost black eyes under strong black eyebrows. A lean strong face with high cheekbones, a moustache that ran the length of the upper lip, a small tuft of hair under his lower lip; and a small tuft beard. Longish black hair under his fleece hat, with the red crown denoting him to be a Don Cossack.

His high collared blue zhupan (tunic) showed signs of having seen action. The bandolier that crossed over the front of the zhupan ended in the strap that held the shashka (sabre) which he grasped in his left hand. In his right hand, he grasped the nagaika (whip), indicative of a cavalryman. His soft black leather boots gathered around his ankles and disappeared under blue sharavary (wide trousers) with their distinctive wide red stripe. His shoulder straps were blue and his fleece hat showed the red crown of the Don Cossacks. In the cold weather he would add the kyreia (overcoat) for warmth.

"You look so much like him Arkadiy." Proudly his father would point out the similarities in features and build. As his grandfather was a strikingly handsome man, his grandson was proud to be cast in his image, often trading on his inherited looks to draw women to him like moths to a light. Unheeding of the danger many burned themselves on his fire.

Reminiscing with his father, Arkadiy would resent the Russians as the familiar black shadow of depression would etch into his father's face when he recalled the Raskazachivaniye (decossackization), Lenin's Bolshevik's policy of the systematic elimination of the Don and Kuban Cossacks as social groups in 1919.

Surviving this desecration of a race, his grandfather had been active in WWII, which became a double edged sword for Ukrainians.

"We are descendants of the половцы (Lipchak), the original people of Ukraine and were here long before the Mongols invaded Russia," The man would regale proudly to the child. Life had passed him by and all he had left was to live it through his ancestor's glorious past deeds. "Our history goes back to the tenth century when we ruled the Steppe under Kazak. We routed the Khazars and called our state Kazakia."

Taking refuge in that escapist means that men of all countries dive into when reality becomes too much for them, they downed the local vodka in the village inn, taking Arkadiy with them when he turned 5 years old. Against the futile protests of his mother.

"Time for you to turn into a man," they would roar, pound him on the back and lift him on to the bar, shouting at the barman to give him small tots of watered down vodka from the age of 10. These increased in volatility as he grew older, helping to build up that famed Slavic tolerance for the wicked distillation.

"If you had been born in your grandfather's time, you would have been able to ride a horse at the age of 3 and when you were 7 or 8, you would have been allowed to ride in the street, go fishing and hunt with grown-ups." And they would playfully pinch his cheeks.

When their minds were full of fog and their tongues slurred their words, Aleksandr and his retinue would dance enthusiastically, Arkadiy amongst them. Great Cossack dances that told the legends of bravery and glory when the Cossacks had ruled the world, or as much of it as had been known in the distant past. It was a miracle he survived the rites of passage from boy to manhood but it had stood him in good stead many times during his turbulent life.

How his father wished he had the means to provide Arkadiy with his true heritage but it had not been possible. Sitting at Yevheniy's knee, he had listened while his father told him of how, when he was born, in keeping with Cossack tradition, his relatives presented him an arrow, a bow, a cartridge, a bullet and a gun. All of these symbols had hung on the wall over his bed. By Arkadiy's time, the tradition was discouraged by the communist rulers.

"When a Cossack had entered military service, he was provided with two horses, uniform and arms. We were the greatest horsemen the world has ever seen." Lost in the mists of time the men sought to impress the daring feats the Cossacks were known for on the young boy.

"Cossacks liked horse races." They enthused. "A rider was to hit the mark. The most nimble would stand on horseback and do it." And they would rise as one and take stances reminiscent of the deeds.

"The old Dukes and Tzars of Russia needed us to form their cavalry and fight their battles," they would boast repeatedly, as they sat down on the hard wooden benches again.

"The French ran from us during Napoleon's invasion of Russia. We struck terror into their hearts. Their little Emperor proclaimed "Cossacks are the best light troops among all that exist. If I had them in my army I would go through the entire world with them."

"We destroyed his communications and supply lines with our skirmishes inside their lines when they occupied our territory." Their faces would light up at the actions of their ancestors. They had the right to be proud as the first developments of guerrilla warfare tactics and, to some extent, special operations as we know them today, came from the Cossacks.

On the whole they were a pretty ferocious unbridled lot. The most exotic of cavalrymen, the Cossacks drew a great deal of attention and notoriety for their alleged excesses during Napoleon's 1812 campaign.

They could taste the sweet taste of freedom when reliving their vainglorious past.

"When Bohdan Khmelnytsky led a rebellion in the mid-17th century and formed an autonomous Cossack Hetmanate, we became free men." It was a suzerainty under protection of the Russian Tsar but ruled by the local Heetmans for half a century. It had been short but pure, and led Ukrainians to bemoan their fate in the present day.

Chapter 20 – Cossack History

Now the Ukraine was an independent country again after having seceded from the USSR, but when Arkadiy returned to visit his stanitsa, this did not stop the old men as they were now, from dwelling upon the Ukrainian genocide under Joseph Stalin.

In 1929 Stalin implemented a policy of collectivisation, to guarantee control over the food supply he needed to feed the workers in the cities as he pursued his dream of industrializing Russia. He also believed the peasants would never again openly rebel against Communist rule as they did not want to lose their independence and become servants of the state. This move resulted in extensive conflict.

"We killed our cows and horses and set fire to crops. Why should we allow that Padla!(mean son of a bitch) to do this to a proud nation." Anger at their impotency stalked their faces as they continued their tirade against the tyrant. "That Blyadischa (whore), sent in the secret police against us to seize our grain because we were the breadbasket of the USSR."

Starting in 1929 the policy was enforced, using regular troops and secret police to confiscate lands and material where necessary. This resulted in a terrible famine that killed five million people in the Ukraine alone.

"That Blyadischa," they would curse and surreptitiously cross themselves, as it was still forbidden to worship Christ or any other icon in the communist state. "He was a Svoloch (bastard) and Piz'duk (bullshitter of the first order). He stole our history from us and forced us to work the land to feed his ambitions."

Forced collectivisation had a devastating effect on agricultural productivity. Despite this, in 1932 the Soviet government increased Ukraine's production quotas by 44%, ensuring that they could not be met. Soviet law required that the members of a collective farm would receive no grain for their personal use until government quotas were satisfied. The authorities in many instances exacted such high levels of procurement from collective farms that starvation became widespread.

How this land of the proud Don Cossacks suffered as terror stalked their lands. Many resisted as the desperate peasants struggled against the authorities.

Wealthier peasants were labelled kulaks, enemies of the state. Tens of thousands were executed and about 100,000 families were deported to Siberia and Kazakhstan. These were the knowledgeable efficient peasants and well to do, which affected the agricultural production, as the less efficient struggled to deliver Stalin's demands.

Somehow Arkadiy's grandfather escaped the purge but fate had something else in store for him.

The Korshanenko farm, which provided their food, employed peasants to run it. Now they were forced to join in the labor as it became a collective farm. Unused to hard labor it took a huge toll on his grandmother, who succumbed to the harsh life not many years later.

"The world talks about the Jews under Hitler. Who has told the world of the eleven million Ukrainians murdered by that Svoloch Stalin. Twenty-five percent of our population was exterminated in the Holodomor (Ukrainian Holocaust.)" Their eyes would fill with tears. "The rest of the world did not want to know and let Stalin hide it." Wringing their hands, as they recalled the ravages, bitterness was etched on each lined and weary face.

"He was no better than that other Padla, Lenin. Those monsters feared the mighty Don Cossacks so they set out to eliminate them from the face of the earth." With ferocious energy they would spit on the floor, "We spit on them and their memories. May the Devil," again some surreptitious signing of the cross took place, "find a special place in hell for them both and roast them slowly over the eternal fires of damnation for beasts like them."

"Look at the pit' zapoem (a chronic drunk) who came after Gorbachev." The uncles would echo. "Thank God for Mikhail." More crossing of breasts and eyes raised to the God they could now freely worship at will.

Yevheniy had been reinstated back into a Cossack cavalry when Russia perceived the chill winds of war emanating from Adolf Hitler's rise to power. When WWII arrived, Arkadiy's grandfather had been assigned to Yugoslavia and Aleksandr had become head of the household. Cruelly, life began to pass him by.

In some ways it had been a huge mistake on the part of the Bolsheviks, who had made enemies of the Ukrainians.

"At first we thought the Germans were liberators." His defeated father would recall the horrors of that time. "We were not traitors. Ukraine did not consider itself part of the Russian nation. We thought it was our opportunity to break free after Stalin had repressed us."

But fate had not finished with the Ukraine yet.

"Instead the Nazis turned on us, killing, deporting us for slave labor and burning down our villages. We thought nothing could be worse than life under the Soviet regime but it was just as bad. A new group of monsters replaced the old."

His father's back would stiffen and his head lift proudly. "So we fought them as well as the Soviets. There were severe reprisals. Mass executions." His head would droop sadly again, remembering the scorched earth campaigns. "We began to think we were a doomed race. Why had God turned his face from us? What had we done to deserve this constant persecution from everyone? We were a fierce, proud people."

"Do you know Arkadiy." Proudly his father would tell him. "The Ukrainian SSR were the first troops to liberate the Auschwitz Nazi concentration camp. The world forgets that."

Arkadiy knew his history. The Ukraine nation saw one of the greatest bloodsheds during the WW11 as seven million of them died. The Ukrainian nation distinguished itself by being first to fight the Axis powers during WW II in Carpatho-Ukraine. Resistance against Soviet Government forces continued as late as the 1950s.

The last of a long line of cavalrymen, Yevheniy had been executed by the Russians as a traitor when the Allies expatriated the Cossacks back to the Ukraine after World War II and Stalin exacted his revenge. This became known as the British Betrayal of the Cossack.

Following the war, as the military became more mechanised, Cossack units along with cavalry in general, were rendered obsolete and released from the Soviet Army.

As he looked upon the isolation of the once proud Ukraine Cossack families now reduced to servitude, he vowed he would not become one of them. They might think him a callow youth but determination was etched in his mind at a young age.

Chapter 21 – Arkadiy's History

Growing older he began to realise he had choices. Live a meaningless life filled with bitterness, dooming himself to some mundane way to earn a living and probably drink himself to death with frustration. Or he could use the machine that was available to him, somehow find a way out and join

When he was a child, after the death of the hated Joseph Stalin, a Ukrainian peasant Nikita Khrushchev had been elected First Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union from 1953-1964 and Chairman of the Council of Ministers from 1958-1964. Despite receiving only approximately two years of education as a child, he was apparently highly intelligent and probably only became fully literate in his late twenties or early thirties.

He was trained for and worked as a joiner in various factories and mines. During World War 1, Khrushchev became involved in trade union activities. After the Bolshevik revolution in 1917 he fought in the Red Army. He then became a Party member in 1918 and worked at various management and Party positions.

In 1931 Khrushchev was transferred to Moscow and four years later became (Moscow Gorkom) of VKP(b). This paved the way to him becoming the 1st Secretary of the Central Committee of the Ukrainian Communist Party. Now he could become a member of Politburo.

As Arkadiy grew, he studied Khrushchev's rise to power from its very humble illiterate beginnings and knew there was a way out for him, even if it involved turning his back on the Ukraine.

_Leonid_ Ilyich _Brezhnev_ , another Ukrainian, rose in power to become General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union for 16 years and its President for five.

Brezhnev belonged to the first generation of Soviet Communists who had no adult memories of Russia before the revolution and who were too young to have participated in the leadership struggles in the Communist Party which followed Lenin's death in 1924. By the time Brezhnev joined the party Joseph Stalin was its undisputed leader. Those who survived Stalin's Great Purge of 1937-39 could gain rapid promotions, since the purges opened up many positions in the senior and middle ranks of the Party and State.

These men became role models for Arkadiy as he studied both their careers avidly and his determination grew. If they could claw their way out of a Ukrainian legacy and rise to power he could.

His natural intelligence ensured he stood out amongst his classmates as he progressed through the education system. Firstly in his hometown, then graduating from Росто́вская о́бласть, Rostovskaya _oblast_ Communist _Party Higher School_. Like Brezhnev he decided his way forward would be to join the military.

Arkadiy was nothing if not adaptable.

His progress had not gone unnoticed and he was approached by Party cadres with the offer to consider a career in military counter-intelligence. Having discovered this struck a chord with him, he accepted. Important contacts were made and after his two year training course, he served among Soviet forces in East Germany.

In the gray villa at No. 4 Angelikastrasse, perched on a hill overlooking the Elbe River, the young major he had now become in the Soviet secret police, spent his time recruiting people to spy on the West.

His job was to look for East Germans who had a plausible reason to travel abroad such as professors, journalists, scientists and technicians, for whom there were acceptable legends or cover stories.

Always the opportunist, Arkadiy joined forays into the African Congo and Angola with Russian Military advisors. When he saw the opportunities for illegal trafficking in diamonds, his appetite had been whetted.

By some miracle he managed to survive a further short posting to Afghanistan. Then in 1984 he struck gold and was posted to the Lubyanka KGB headquarters in Moscow. Thankfully it turned out to be a brief tenure but boosted him along the fast track to important connections which he later leveraged, as the fissures began showing in the structure of his country.
Chapter 22 – New York June 2006

Some weeks later, Basil sat in his corner office surveying his domain with views extending out to the East River. As a partner and director of Ambrose Merchant Bank, an English based investment company, he had been busy since the end of his marriage to Colette, who remained unaware of the full extent of his business dealings.

Thoroughly reveling in the intrigue, he gloated over the power he now had over life and death. It had been great fun laundering money for the filthy rich through Ambrose but it could not compare to being involved in manipulating and defrauding an entire country. It gave him wet dreams at night as he imagined an aura of power exuding from him.

"The problem with those Russian bastards," Basil said to his cousin who was sitting across from him, "is that they're all so fucking volatile. They're unreliable at the best of times. What's their problem anyway? Whilst the huddled masses are pissed off with Gorbachev, Glasnost and Perestroika, for the old KGB thugs it's business as usual and they're living off the fat off the land. If they haven't bought the state owned enterprises, they are working for Oligarchs that have. They still have their boot on the necks of the masses while they rape the country for all they're worth."

They were chewing over world affairs, one their favorite pastimes.

"Yes, we know." As Desmond was one of the gray ghosts behind the scenes pulling the strings, he hardly needed a political history lesson from his cousin. "If you're earnest about making this work I urge you not to trifle with them. They are dangerous people." Lifting a well manicured hand to his ear, he rubbed to relieve an irritating itch and couldn't help but sigh. What a burden it was keeping one's less wealthy relations in gainful employment.

However Basil was at his most loquacious. Leaning forward and lowering his voice conspiratorially to Desmond as though the walls had ears, he declaimed. "I'm bloody sure they pulled off that huge diamond heist last week in Antwerp, which the Italians are taking the fall for. Bet they set the Eyeties up as patsies. Who in their right mind would take office space right above Antwerp's Diamond Centre and allow themselves to be traced?" He laughed uproariously. "The Eyeties haven't got the brains to plan something that huge and get away with it. In their haste they left many pieces behind but what they got away with hasn't been found." Basil ignored the fact that it hardly mattered as they had more than they could comfortably carry.

"I don't think you will find the Russian Mafia is behind this." Desmond wished Basil would show more restraint. It would be his undoing in the end. "There would have been bodies littering the floor. After all, They're not shy of bloodshed."

The Diamond Centre stands in the heart of the high-surveillance diamond district of Antwerp where police and dozens of cameras work around the clock. It consists of three grubby streets behind the railway station. The thieves had learned how to circumvent the alarm system and copy the master keys. They taped over cameras and are believed to have put old videotapes in the surveillance system to buy time.

The Belgium investigators believe two years went into planning the robbery and called it a piece of genius in its simplicity, not in the least because the security system was so thoroughly analyzed.

"Well it was carried out after hours." Basil was not going to be deterred by commonsense at this point. "Surely this points to more cunning brains than Italians possess."

Basil glossed over the Italian brains that had been involved in the Vatican Bank financial scandals. Ignoring the Venetian minds who had managed the Vatican's finances for centuries and their control of finance and trade along the Silk Route from Venice to China, India, Persia and Arabia for centuries, he prattled on.

"Surely it points to the Russian crime families whose tentacles reach everywhere today. Or maybe," an audacious thought poked its way through the morass of his mind. "It was the Israelis. The Entebbe hijack of the diamond world? Wouldn't put it past them." Given the inside information he had now he just might have been on to something. "It's not outside the realms of possibility but would they shit in their own nest? Surely not?" he reasoned as Desmond wondered if his cousin had finally gone mad.

Desmond disagreed with Basil, which was not unusual. God knows there were enough movies and novels to show the determined gang of thieves how to carry off a successful raid. His cousin really should learn it was best to keep one's racist views to oneself, if one wanted to live to see another day.

"Does he believe he was inviolable now he's placed amongst the big boys?" Desmond wondered and shuddered at the thought as he studied his well manicured hands. He had no doubt the group would chew him up and spit him out in the blink of a gnat's eye if Basil exposed them in any way. "Dear God, I hope I haven't made a huge mistake, placing my ever so slightly unbalanced relative in this Cartel. He seems to be spiralling into one of his manic episodes." As these usually resulted in some untoward behavior, which had until now been swept under the carpet, Basil did harbor some rather grandiose ideas about himself during these periods, Desmond had reason to be concerned.

"The floor was strewn with safety boxes, gold, money, securities, cut and rough diamonds, jewels in their haste to get out of the vault. They were in there for hours and no one had a clue."

Basil roared with laughter at the thieves' audaciousness. "So much for Belgian security. Christ, they were unbelievably cruel bastards in the Congo before we ousted them."

"Now the Russians. And those Chechens." Shivering at the thought of one of them on his doorstep, he knew the Russians were not above employing them to kill for their human trafficking enterprises, despite the recent fracas between the two countries. "The Ruski's are so coarse."

As subtlety was the domain of the British intelligence services, Desmond had done his very best to school Basil in the art. "Well, there's no denying their methods work superbly. The criminal element in most major cities of the world view them as a force to be reckoned with and feared as they encroach on their territories."

At this point Desmond thought seriously about moving on.

"Not to mention their unbelievable gluttony and capacity for vodka." Basil had a tendency to take off on other tangents at the drop of a hat. "Guess they have to keep warm somehow in that Godforsaken country." Shuddering theatrically he wrapped his arms around him. "Slavs. Great capacity for outrageous cruelty. Look at the Balkans. Jesus what a slaughter and all over religious differences."

He completely overlooked the bloodshed left in the wake of his latest business enterprise. After all his hands were clean weren't they? Let the Russians deal with the bloodletting.

"Well religion has its place you know." Desmond was a good Anglican, attending church every Sunday. It would not enter his head to pray for forgiveness for his nefarious deeds. After all everything he did was for the good of the country.

"The Ruskis always have been difficult pricks to deal with at any time." Basil's thoughts wandered to the close ties between the royal households of Europe. "Didn't matter whether the Tzar was ruling or the mad Bolsheviks."

Desmond made one last attempt to keep Basil on track. "Now that the cousin's (British Foreign Office-speak for the US Government) are busy saber rattling in that powder keg the Middle East, anything could happen." He gazed past Basil to the view outside the window, seemingly lost in contemplation "The world was more stable when the Cold War existed as there was a balance of power."

"God knows how with those bloody drunken peasants leading it."

"Yes, well none of them understood the necessity of commerce, which was an integral part of Marx's philosophy. As they couldn't understand it, they completely ignored it. They were peasants and only knew how to till the soil. The rest is history." Desmond understood why the USSR had failed. No country could sustain the cost of industrializing for the main purpose of maintaining a military machine to suppress their satellites they had taken by force and compete with America for world domination. It had left them wide open to destruction as they closed their doors on trade with the rest of the world.

Basil chimed in once more, loving the sound of his own voice pontificating.

"And now they're rampaging around the world, having taken over the state owned enterprises in Russia and trying to penetrate the west. They're even employing Albanians for God's sake. They're the cruelest bastards in the world. Nobody can control them, not even the Russians. Jesus, I don't think they're even human beings. They don't act like it." Basil couldn't even begin to contemplate meeting one of them in an alley on a dark night. Not that the Albanians cared about the cover of darkness in most cases.

Desmond sighed again. It really was time to move on. Once wound up with his own self importance, it was easier to stop a raging rhinoceros dead in its track when it was eyeballing you, than Basil in full cry.

There had been some disturbing rumors circulating after the death of his first wife who had tended to fall down the stairs quite frequently and wore clothes that would cover the myriad of bruises on her body. The final fall that had broken her neck had set tongues wagging, so they had been forced to ship him out to the colony that Britain had lost during a tea party.

Coming from a long line of aristocrats who had endeavored to keep the bloodline pure by marrying into their own kind, Desmond understood the breeding lines had got a bit screwed up over the centuries. A quick look at history and the royal families confirmed that. Still one had to look out for one's own. As long as they understood the rules.

It was unfortunate indeed that Basil seemed to have a little problem. He needed to prove himself by abusing women. It gave him a sense of power to slap around the next weaker link in the food chain. "It's a pity about those chaps that can only get it up with a bit of rough foreplay." Desmond ruminated as he bent down to pick a small piece of fluff off the bottom of his trousers.

Frankly he was astonished Colette had married his cousin. Successful in her own right, she hardly struck him as a society trophy wife. He had liked her and wondered what had attracted her to Basil.

Nor was he surprised when she had left him. Obviously the wolf in sheep's clothing had begun to molt behind closed doors. Lately, it was becoming noticeable to those that knew him too well as his true nature was making little forays out into the open. Dipping its foot in the water to see how much it could get away with. Pity it was beginning to show in the Cartel, as he began to flex his muscles.

Desmond straightened up slowly. It was becoming apparent he would have to keep a close eye on Basil. Whilst there were many twisted beasts running amok in what passed as high society in the lost colony, the Punjambahs back home could not afford any indiscretions in a country they were busy cozying up to at the moment. He might be forced to keep a closer eye on his cousin.

"Always in the wrong place at the wrong time trampling over anyone in their path. Russians. Insane bastards" Basil would not be silenced easily.

The notion that one of the mad bastards was essential to the success of the Cartel's venture seemed to have passed Basil by.

Basil's thoughts wandered off to the latest headlines. "Now a fucking great gold mine has been discovered in Indonesia." Pausing for a breath, Basil veered off on another train of thought.

Desmond smiled grimly as he struggled to keep up with the play.

"I guess Musk will be after that one." Basil mulled over whether the American gentleman of some influence with his own government, could possibly affect the Cartel's profit margins. Deciding he posed no threat, he settled back contentedly.

Chapter 23 – Basil's History

Desmond was one of the gray shadows in the corridors of power in Britain where the slightest ripple in their privileged existence and gilded halls, could affect the lives of the most insignificant person on earth. Atop his lofty perch in the rarefied atmosphere of the Outright Bastards of the British Foreign Office, dear Desmond, whose slightest shrug of his well tailored dandruff free shoulders could hold the power of life and death for many, crossed his legs and leaned back in the buttoned leather chair.

Naturally the conversation turned to the American Intelligence Agencies.

"God, they're stirring up a hornet's nest in the Middle East now." Basil said dubiously.

"Oh yes, our dear cousins," Desmond said. "If they're not destabilizing some banana republic for their Fortune 500 companies, they're stirring up their old allies." He shook his head as he agreed with Basil, which was a rare occasion.

Basil was not about to be put down that easily, so they ran the gamut of the last few Presidents, particularly Bill Clinton, as he was jealous of the man's power and charisma. "Yes, well, I've heard rumors that the CIA carried out more sanctioned assassinations around the globe when he was in office than any other president."

"As long as it doesn't reach the general public what does that matter? That's why they are called Secret Services," Desmond reminded him. "As long as the limelight remained on the juicy scandal with Monica Lewinski, do you think the public was interested in the assassination of people and political figures in countries they don't give a thought to on a day to day basis? This has been going on since time immemorial."

Basil nodded and deliberated that given the same position and power he wouldn't hesitate either. In fact the thought of assassinating one or two people who were giving him grief at the moment, sat quite comfortably with him.

Briefly his mind flitted to both Colette and Arkadiy then returned to the matter at hand as he wondered how they had gotten so far off track. Desmond could have told him. Basil's digressions into flights of fancy were not unusual.

"Personally I don't care if they all blow themselves to Kingdom come." Basil leaned back in his chair, adjusting to a more comfortable position. "What I object to is when they interfere in the currency markets and destabilize them. De Beers is pissed off as their market share has dropped from eighty five to sixty percent in the last few years. The cheeky Jewish Mafia has cut right into it." This cheered Basil no end as he was perfectly happy with the status quo." I wish you had the Zimbabwean under better control," he digressed.

Desmond considered how it was difficult sometimes keeping track of Basil's thought processes, as they flew off in different directions like the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland going down the shute. In fact a conversation with Basil was not dissimilar to a trip through the Looking Glass. "Well." Desmond replied laconically. "Difficult as it is to control a barking mad fucker like him, we do our best."

"Do you know the Oryx consortium had the cheek to try and list on the London Stock Exchange?" Basil was off on another tangent. "They'll blow it for everyone if they keep this up."

Oryx was a mining company registered in the Cayman Islands, which put together a one billion dollar profit-sharing deal with the Congolese and Sierra Leonean governments, for a diamond concession. The Sierra Leonean army was providing security around the concession in the Kasai region, (the Congo's main source of industrial quality diamonds), with senior Sierra Leonean army officers on the board of another company that formed a joint venture with Oryx to exploit the concession.

Naturally, the London Stock Exchange took a rather dim view of this obvious conflict of interests, when Oryx sought to list it on their stock market. Despite the company's denials of conflict, the British Government also criticized Oryx's self serving view of the cosy little arrangement. Despite their protestations to the contrary, their financial advisers withdrew, forcing the company to abandon its flotation.

"We can educate them at Oxford but you can't take the tribe out of them, "Basil sneered as Desmond flinched. "I hope someone assassinates the nasty little bastard."

Desmond was finally able to interrupt Basil's ongoing diatribe once more. "Basil you must put your prejudices aside. Certain world interests do not want the status quo to change."

Basil took his feet off the desk, leaned over and picked up a Partagas Cuban cigar from the humidor on his desk and lit it. "Do you know that prick Lemontov uses Hasidic Jews as mules to carry the diamonds?"

"God Basil, do you have to smoke that stinking thing when I'm around." Desmond complained. "Look you know what a cozy incestuous little game plan it is. Don't go rocking the boat with these bloody prejudices of yours."

Basil brushed aside the objection. "Well, you bring them in for me in the Diplomatic bag, for which I thank you." Cuban cigars were, of course, banned in America, given their relationship with the Government of that country, which did not stop them reaching senators and the wealthy elite.

They tossed around the relationship between America and Israel for a while, realizing they were ably assisting the latter in debstabilizing the area.

Desmond uncrossed his long legs, stood up and was ready to depart. He had had enough for today. "We need this entre into the true aspirations between Israel and America. Just stay with it until we tell you otherwise. There's a good chap."

"That's all very well." Basil stood up and walked to the door with Desmond. "I'm the one that has to put up with their nouveau riche aspirations." Basil had the knack of conveniently forgetting his own idiosyncrasies.

"Not altogether true dear boy." Desmond assured him. "We are very active behind the scenes. By the way," he cautioned his cousin. "Arkadiy Korshanenko may possess a veneer of respectability and sanity, however scratch the surface and a mad dog will jump out without the slightest hesitation and maul you to death."

"Let him try," Basil harrumphed.

Desmond had no doubt who would be the victor if his cousin squared off with Arkiday. He would be looking for someone to replace the banker. More than likely they would never find a body. "Bear up old boy, we are behind you all the way." Desmond was keen to get away. "Just keep that ego of yours in check will you. We British must keep the chaos under control." Sighing with true urbane British sanguinity he walked across the luxurious reception to the elevator.

Basil watched him raise his hand in salute and step into the car. As it descended he walked thoughtfully back into his office. "Why are the stupid fuckers all called Arkadiy Korshanenko or Evgeniy Ivanovitch? Stupid bloody mile long names one cannot even begin to remember and addressing each other with the patronymic first. How is any civilized person meant to converse with them, let alone understand them?"

Contentedly chewing on the illegal cigar like a cow with cud his mind was never far away from Colette. "The ancient Chinese had it right. They had absolute dominion and power over their households. So did European men until the last century. It's all going to hell in a basket now." Smoldering at the thought of the power women had gained in the last century, he noticed his cigar ash had dropped down the front of his jacket. As a fastidious man, he was visibly upset as he brushed it away. His appearance was very important to him. His thoughts returned yet again, to how he would get the better of Colette. Aaah, he had not finished with her yet. Not by a long shot.

Chapter 24 – The Hamptons June 2006

Colette had been busy sorting out her life and calling rental agents. She had finally settled on a charming clapboard cottage in Sag Harbor, nestled amongst trees overlooking Otter Pond. That it came fully furnished was a bonus. It was sufficient for her needs whilst she completed the manuscript when she could look for a permanent home.

She liked Sag Harbor which had begun life as a bustling whaling port. Whilst retaining the centuries old streets lined with ancient trees, it had been transformed into inviting homes, as well as restaurants and shops that offer food and fare from around the corner or the other side of the world.

In no time at all she had settled in happily. At dusk after a hard day at the office she would cease working on the manuscript, massage her aching neck and shoulders then stroll down leisurely to the main shopping centre and the Port. The myriad of masts rising from the yachts in the harbor were a picture postcard, a perfect reminder of the village's maritime history.

"Thank goodness it's been preserved." Contentedly she would stroll around in the late evening so she could take in one of the stunning sunsets the village was famous for; flaring the sky a brilliant red as though the orb had reached out spectral fingers to paint the clouds as they moved across the blue sky.

One evening, she made her way back to the cottage, after her fix and as she entered the house, the telephone insisted she pick up and answer.

"Colette?" Her agent's voice was on the other end. "How's the novel coming? You're deadlines two months out and you know the publishers have booked it in for Christmas sales. We must have it to them soon."

"Oh Francis," she was delighted to hear from her agent. She adored him. "I know darlin' heart," she reassured him. "I'm totally focused on it. Finished five hundred pages and another fifty should see it wrapped up. Then I just have to do a final edit before I'm happy to hand it over for your critique and the first proof reading and edits."

"Good girl, knew I could count on you." Francis had a deep bass voice that was so comforting. He genuinely liked Colette and held her in high esteem. It was a mutual admiration society. "What about coming up to the city for lunch one day next week."

"I'll push on and finish then come up with the draft and we can lunch." Colette gazed out the window at the view. The long summer days were thawing out the coldness she had wrapped herself in and found hard to shake off. It had been the right decision to move out of New York with its bitter memories and enjoy all the Hamptons had to offer.

She supposed autumn would be upon them soon enough and the leaves would turn to glorious shades of reds and amber before they shed this life. The trees would lay dormant for the winter, ready to renew life again next spring.

As soon as she hung up the phone pealed again.

"Colette. Ellie! Now I know you're working to a deadline but I'm not taking no for an answer. We're having a farewell dinner party Sunday evening. As you know we have to return to Cambridge next week. The new semester is not far off and the kids are off to college. I don't know how I'm going to cope with an empty nest." Ellie was not about to let Colette get a word in. "No excuses you're coming to dinner. I need you."

Warmth stole around her heart and knocked on the door to be let in, so she opened it a chink.

"You're right. I've made good progress on the book and a night out will freshen me up. I'd love to come." After all, it had been a few weeks since they had gotten together.

"Thank God, Floyd was going to come out and physically pick you up if you refused. We've missed you and he's such a fussy protective bear. He was going to sling you over his shoulder like the hunter gatherer he is and carry you back to his lair if you refused. Stay overnight please."

"I really need to drive back and get into the book in the morning." Colette laughed as she pushed her reading glasses up on top of her head.

"To hell with it." Ellie was not going to be put off. "You can leave straight after breakfast, I don't want you driving back in the dark," she coerced. "I want you to enjoy yourself and have a drink or two."

"That's a sure recipe for disaster. I won't be able to write anything sensible. Can't afford some murky headache lurking in the background." Colette was adamant. She had a commitment and wouldn't break it so she used an age old technique of deferring the promise Ellie was trying hard to elicit out of her. "I won't promise. Let's see on the night."

"Well at least bring an overnight bag with you." Ellie pushed a little harder.

"Okay. Okay. Enough already." Colette laughed. "You're the typical Jewish mother you know. Seven o'clock for seven thirty, right?" She had helped Ellie with dinner parties many times and knew the routine by heart.

"Hey, are you casting aspersions on my Jewish background again?" Ellie couldn't help herself.

"The Jewish princess." Colette came back with the perfect riposte. "You've grown into the ultimate Jewish momma and you know it. You gather us all to your bosom and love us to death. And you use that ancient secret that all Jewish women know about. Scrumptious, yummy food."

"Unless you want to come a little earlier, say 3pm, then we could have coffee and a chat," Ellie pleaded.

"Don't push your luck. If I don't finish the book you'll have a starving writer on your doorstep begging to be taken in."

Ellie met this with gales of laughter. "Right! Who was that on the bestseller list yet again two years ago?"

Having said their goodbyes she realized how pleased she would be to see them again. Pulling the glasses down over her eyes again Colette put down the phone and settled back down to work.

Ellie came running out the front door as she pulled in to the driveway at 5pm.

"A compromise." Colette grinned and handed over a huge bunch of flowers as they hugged each other.

"Thank you, thank you oh wonderful favored friend. Cup of coffee and chat," and she led the way inside, after Colette gathered up her overnight bag.

Settling at the large rustic table in the family room off the open plan kitchen they both gratefully sipped hot coffee. "God Colette, how the hell do you do it? All that damn cream and sugar in your coffee and you still don't put on weight. I use Equal in black coffee and have to watch everything I put in my mouth." Ellie pulled a wry face.

"Despite this indulgence, my one and only 'cos you know I don't have a sweet tooth, I still have to watch out for savories and my downfall is cheese, as you well know. Yum." She cut a small piece of French brie that had been standing at room temperature for twenty four hours and popped it into her mouth, savoring the mushroom taste that a good brie should have.

The two friends shared a love of cooking and entertaining, believing the enjoyment of food and good conversation was part of the passion for life. Floyd was the wine connoisseur. Colette knew what she liked and only drank white wine as the tannin in reds gave her headaches. Still, there were enough varieties of white wine to keep her satisfied for the rest of her life.

"Yes, but it's not fair," complained Ellie who struggled to keep her weight down.

"Aaah, who said life was fair? You who are the typical Cancerian earn a living cooking which you love, have the perfect life and are so contented. You're the perfect Earth Mother. Hell, I burn it off by avoiding emotional commitment and then choosing the worst marriage in the world." Colette made a moue with her mouth. "I'm the Piscean writer, but what the hell; an imagination comes with it that enables me to earn a living doing what I love." She shrugged one shoulder, cut another small piece of brie then leaned over and hugged her friend. "Maybe I'll be contented one day and gobble up cakes."

"Not in this lifetime with the busy life you lead. I reckon you burn it off writing."

"I am the fey Piscean who can read into the future and I prophesy that you will be the sveltest TV cook to ever grace the screen."

"Yeah right."

"I mean it, you'll be so damn busy you won't have time to eat."

"I wish."

"You're probably right about the writing. I burn up tons of energy and forget to eat sometimes. Luckily I don't I don't live on coffee and cigarettes when I'm writing, like many creative people do, but I do eat lightly. God, I have to." Leaning forward she patted Ellie's hand, "All your wonderful cooking. It's lethal. Now what can I do to help?" Swiftly changing the subject she gave herself up to the moment.

"Nothing. All done. Table set. I just want you to enjoy yourself."

Chapter 25 – The Hamptons June 2006

The guests started arriving at 7pm. Four old friends whom Colette knew well and was delighted to see. Kisses and hugs all round. Bill and Annie had brought a single man with them.

"Well, well, what a surprise." Colette was amused at their matchmaking efforts. "A set-up," and glared at her friend who chuckled and brushed the side of Colette's face with her hand.

"Be good. He's lonely. His wife took off with some other guy. No harm in two people on their own having a meal with us."

"Right!" Colette cynically tossed back at her and took stock of the burnt offering.

Tall, over six feet. Curly brown hair. Deep brown eyes looking at her from behind the square framed glasses as they were introduced. He had a nice lived in face. Eyes that crinkled when he smiled, a firm handshake and a good build, that he obviously kept in shape. Lean frame on which his open necked shirt and chinos sat well.

He leaned towards her and whispered, "I think it's a set-up but I don't mind if you don't. No harm done. Just means they think a lot of us. We can relax and enjoy the dinner party knowing there's no pressure on either of us."

Colette sized him up and liked his direct approach. "Sure. I won't bite if you don't."

Grinning back at the slim woman who came up to his shoulder and wore her clothes with a casual elegance, he liked her vivacity and air of insouciance. Who did she remind him of? On the end of his tongue but so tongue tied he couldn't get it out of the niche it was residing in.

Colette preferred elegant casual clothes. Whilst she had some Italian and French labels that she bought off the rack, she was just as comfortable wearing small designers who were just as talented but did not have the drive, or the fairy godmother behind them, that it took to make it big in the world of fashion.

The glitterati lifestyle was not for her and she had disposed of a lot of the evening wear that had been part and parcel of life with Basil. It was like shedding the old lifestyle and returning to the one she was comfortable in.

Emile thought he could drown in the large eyes the color of emeralds, which met his gaze directly and held a depth of intelligence. She struck him as being amused at the obvious situation they found themselves in.

Minimal makeup. Long lashes and high arched eyebrows. Set in a heart-shaped face with high cheekbones, framed by shoulder length hair the color of a soft morning sunrise, as opposed to a fiery evening sunset. Small upturned nose and a generous mouth that easily smiled as she was doing now. A light, golden tan which was unusual in a redhead.

Long legs that seemed to go on forever encased in cream flowing slacks, topped with a multicolored top that did not scream Versace, thank God. White summer sandals with small stack heels. He guessed she was around five foot seven. Just the right height to put an arm around. Yes he decided, he could like her very much.

This was a woman who would make up her own mind and would not be press ganged into any matchmaking. Obviously she had much to give and he knew in an instant he would very much like to be the recipient of her undoubted charm.

His wife Janine had been tiny, only five two and he had felt very protective of her. He knew in an instant that Colette would balk at this, being quite capable of standing on her own two feet.

They moved into the dining room where Ellie had sat them alongside one another, not attempting to cover up her attempts at matchmaking.

"Surprise, surprise." Colette muttered to Emile.

"I won't bite if you don't," he responded and Colette had to laugh.

The conversation flowed around the table as they ate their entrees and probed each other's lives.

"Ellie tells me you're a famous author."

"Well, I earn a living." She wasn't one to blow her own trumpet and brushed this aside.

"I understand you do more than that," he persisted.

Colette shrugged. "And what about yourself? What do you do to keep a roof over your head?"

"I'm an architect." Brown eyes crinkled as he smiled. Nice.

"That must be interesting work." She leaned forward to look at the wonderful selection of food in front of her.

"Let me serve you," he offered.

Colette was quite taken aback. Handing her plate to Emile she watched as he dished out from the large copper pan that sat in the middle of the table, some of the chicken cooked in white wine, then flavored with tarragon and enriched with cream that Ellie had probably thrown up in ten seconds flat.

After serving himself a portion of chicken he passed the side dishes to Colette before taking some for himself. Picking up his knife and fork he paused over the meal.

"Yes, I enjoy architecture, it's very creative." Deflecting any further questioning, he dug in. After the first delicious bite he turned back to her. "I love French provincial cooking, especially when it is served at the table with crusty French bread to soak up the jus."

Colette liked to see him enjoy his food. "Ellie is one of the best cooks in the world. There is talk of a TV show and then she will get the spin-offs with cook books. If anyone deserves

success Ellie does. She's worked so hard." And she forked some of the delicious food into her mouth.

"They seem a really nice couple." Emile paused and looked at her friends, each at one end of the table. "I like this large open area with the view overlooking the sea. No formal dining room."

"Hearts of gold," Colette assured him. "We're a pretty informal bunch. My ex-husband was very formal and I didn't like that much. Typical New York lifestyle. We're pretty laid back here."

"I understand you have an apartment in Sutton Place." Raising his wineglass he toasted her.

"No longer. I signed it over to Basil. I'm going to buy out here. It's peaceful. I really like it. Didn't know if I would as I have only been here for vacations before. It's a great area. I think it will suit me fine because I love both the ocean and the wooded areas. Great spots for reflection and inspiration. It inspires and soothes me." Her face became very animated as she enthused about the Hamptons. Raising her own wineglass, she took a sip and savored it.

"I love all the fresh vegetable stalls, the garden centers and the pottery making sheds. I guess you can tell I love being here." Throwing back her head she laughed gaily. "There are a lot of creative people here and a community spirit that is alive and well. Quite different from New York."

"Won't you miss it?" Emile had heard once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker. Often they were unable to transplant themselves from the Big Apple. Missed the excitement.

"Not really. I loved living there while I carved out a career. The city really inspired and gave me the books I wrote. Now I'm exploring a new genre and the peace and quiet of the Hamptons brings out the creative spirit in me, so I'm fine with it. After all, I was raised in Connecticut."

Emile grinned at her, liking the thought of her being close to him. "That's a great idea, away from the pressure of the city. More bread?" When she nodded Emile passed the basketful of crusty French bread to her.

"I might keep a small apartment in Manhattan. Although it's not like I'm hundreds of miles away from it. I can soon be there if I choose." Colette spread half an inch of butter on her bread and laughed at the look on his face. "I know, I like bread with my butter."

"Where are you staying now?" Reaching over he passed the bowl of spatzle and raised his eyebrows as he asked. "More?"

"Thanks. I love the unusual dishes Ellie mixes together. Spatzle is a German dish which Ellie and I tasted in the Alsace. It's pretty boring just boiled, but when it's fried in a little butter after being cooked, mmmm it's delicious. Goes wonderfully with chicken and tarragon. We found this amazing little restaurant on a canal in Little Venice in a place called Colmar. It was to die for. Convinced us." Spooning a portion on to her plate she let Emile put another portion of chicken with it. "Do you know Ellie bakes her own bread?"

"Get out of here." Emile was pretty impressed with the result. "I think she's going to knock their socks off on television. Where are you living now?"

"I'm renting at Sag Harbor while I look around."

"That's where Bill and Annie live."

"I know. I'm not too far from them but then it's not possible to be too far from anyone in Sag Harbor. It's not exactly New York."

They both laughed in agreement and reached for their wine glasses, lifting them towards each other in another toast.

'I don't want to rush her after hearing what Annie and Bill told me about her marriage experience.' Emile was going to take it slowly and as he continued the conversation with himself he smiled warmly at Colette. 'I really like her. No rush, I'll wait until next weekend and get her number from Annie and invite her for a coffee.'

As they had both finished their meals Emile picked up both their plates and carried them out to the kitchen.

Colette liked that in a man and helped Ellie clear some other dishes. When they both returned to the table he held his stomach and sighed. "Wow, I'm so full."

Colette's laughter pealed out. "Well you have to keep room for one of Ellie's amazing cheeseboards; they're like nothing you have ever seen before. Ten varieties, some of them homemade would you believe? Plus fruit." Laughing at the look of amazement on Emile's face, she gave him the last of the good news she had been holding back.

"There will also be homemade truffles. You go home weighing twenty five pounds more after a meal at Ellie's. Sometimes we even have one of her desserts which are to die for." Leaning up against the sink, she faced Emile.

"Where do you live? In the city?"

"No, I live here at Water Mill. I met Annie and Bill when I renovated their home for them."

"I know. I'll be in good company there."

"How did you all meet?"

"Oh Bill and Floyd were in Spooksville together." She laughed when she saw his face. "You know they are ex-CIA? Bill was Floyd's station head. They both resigned about the same time."

"No, I didn't." Emile shook his head as his face lit up. "I'll bet they have some tales to tell."

"They don't talk about any of their mysterious little disappearances and adventures. We just heard about the postings and the so-called lifestyle of the Cultural attaché and the Head of Station at Embassies in different places."

"They should be a goldmine for a book." He looked at the two men with deep respect.

"Oh no, they tell you nothing. Obviously they want to leave it all behind them. Bury it. Maybe they'll write their memoirs but I doubt it." Colette was amused. "It was a difficult life, particularly for the wives. Never knowing when they were off and for how long. Contact during the missions was forbidden. Half the time their wives didn't know if they were dead or alive. Many Company marriages don't survive the stress."

"I can imagine, probably takes special people."

"They certainly are. Floyd used to say spooks were ordinary people doing a job that was out of the ordinary. Master of the understatement that one. You're right though, it takes a huge toll. I think these guys carry a lot around deep inside their souls. If Bill and Floyd hadn't got out when they did, I think everything would have gone downhill in their lives."

The evening passed pleasantly and Colette decided she would drive home after all.

"Please stay," Ellie begged.

"I can't Ellie," Colette was adamant. "I have to finish the manuscript. Don't want to get writer's block. No commitment, no dollars. You're only as good as your last novel and the readers are fickle. It has to be up to standard."

"It will still be there in the morning," Ellie sighed.

"Precisely and you know that when I am committed I am very focused." Impulsively she hugged her best friend. "I've had a super evening. I'm so glad you asked me."

Ellie raised one eyebrow in a querying manner.

"No, you scheming minx," Colette chided her. "We had a nice evening and there are no plans for dates etc., not even an exchange of telephone numbers." And she looked back to Emile who was also showing signs of leaving.

Ellie's face fell, but as she felt they were eminently suited to each other she was not about to give up on this. Walking her friend to the car she hugged and kissed her. "Drive carefully."

"Always," Colette reassured her and climbing into her European convertible, put the car into gear, waved and drove off.

Chapter 26 – The Hamptons June 2006

Ellie and Floyd lived in South East Hampton and Sag Harbor was more or less directly across the South Fork Peninsula. It was easy driving and Colette had the top down on her Peugeot soft top, enjoying the night air. Suddenly a large SUV roared up behind her and put his headlights on high, blinding her.

"What an idiot." She reacted and reached up to dim her rear view mirror. The car dropped back and she relaxed again. Suddenly he roared up again and stayed right on her tail. She cursed and pushed the accelerator to put distance between them again. Strangely he also accelerated and nudged her rear bumper. Now she is concerned. A lunatic is loose and picking on her.

Fearful, she pressed the accelerator again and picked up speed but he matched her and nudged her rear bumper again. Now she knows he is playing with her. She can't afford to panic but what can she do? His is obviously the more powerful car and if she rolls, with a soft top she doesn't have a prayer. No-one else is on this normally busy and now lonely road. What was she to do? Another nudge and now she knows this is an evil game and the faster she goes, the more he will push her. She can't afford to lose control. Has to keep her head and remain cool!

Suddenly the off road vehicle accelerates and pulls up alongside her. Desperate, she risks a glance at the driver and to her horror sees Basil leering at her. He edges the SUV towards her Peugeot and she knows he is going to sideswipe her. Trying to stifle the panic and think clearly, she takes a couple of deep breaths.

Putting her foot on the brake, she pressed down hard and with a screech felt the tires grip. Thank God it was a fine night and the road wasn't wet. The car slowed down and came to a halt. But what will he do? What will she do when he gets out? More importantly, what will he do? There is not another soul on the road.

What's that in the rear view mirror? Headlights Yes, headlights. It's another car. "Thank God." Fighting anger and terror she chokes back a sob and then a stupid thought pops into her head. "That's not even his stupid Jaguar."

The SUV pulls ahead and moved in front of her, waving the approaching car to pass. When it doesn't respond but falls in behind hers, Basil waved the car on again. The car flashed its headlights and remained where it was. Suddenly Basil accelerated and sped off.

Colette brought the Peugeot to a halt and sat shaking.

"Are you alright?" A face appeared at the side of the car and Colette looked up startled.

"Colette are you alright? What the hell was going on here?" Emile leans over until his concerned face is level with hers. "Christ, what's wrong, you're as white as a sheet and you're shaking. Who the hell was that?"

Slowly she pulled herself together, hysterics would get her nowhere.

"My bloody ex-husband tried to ram me. He kept nudging me with his bumper and then pulled up alongside to sideswipe me."

"The bastard. What kind of a lunatic is he?" Emile was furious. "I recognized your car as there are not too many Peugeots here? The situation seemed peculiar to me which is why I pulled in behind you. I'd better drive you to the police station," and he opened the driver's car door.

"I'll be okay." Colette waved him away.

At this, Emile drew back and held his hands up to show he meant her no harm. "You have to go to the police now," he insisted.

"I'll be alright, I'll go in the morning," she assured him as the shaking began to subside.

"You have to go now. Leave your car here and come in mine." He put out his hand.

She waved him off again. "No, tomorrow will be fine. He'll have some good excuse believe me."

"Okay, okay." He drew back. "We'll do that. But I'm following you home."

"That's kind, thank you." Colette couldn't stand the thought of another assault and didn't resist.

Walking away he got into his Alfa Romeo and followed her to Sag Harbor keeping close behind.

Upon arriving at the cottage with no further incident, she garaged the car, and climbed out, as Emile drew up behind her. Without warning, her legs threatened to buckle under her and she held on to the side of the car.

"Let me help you. Please!" Emile rushed up to her and putting his arm around her gently led her to the door. "Let me open the door for you." Taking the keys out of her shaking hands as she fumbled to put the right one into the lock, he soon got it open. "Have you got deadbolts here?"

Shakily she showed him the security when they were inside and he saw a deadbolt, a security chain and an alarm system.

"Is this monitored?" he queried.

"Yes, I'll be fine."

"Would you like me to stay the night? No strings attached." He gestured wide with his hands to reassure her.

"I'll be fine." She shuddered, took a deep breath and set her face against the world again. "I'll lock all the windows and doors."

"Can I have your phone number so I can call tomorrow to see if you are alright?" Suddenly he felt protective of this independent woman and did not want to leave her in case this lunatic was hanging around.

"Alright." Writing it down on a piece of paper on the hall table, she handed it to him. "I'm not usually such a coward. I thought I was rid of him. "

"Coward? That bastard could have killed you in a convertible." Emile couldn't believe the man had been so stupid. "You need protection."

"He doesn't know where I live. "

"How do you know? How did he know where you would be tonight?"

"I don't know. Maybe he staked out Ellie and Floyd's but he doesn't know where I am living and I have a restraining order against him." Colette sent a little prayer up to whichever gods were on duty that evening that Basil would take notice of it. Didn't look as though it had done much good so far.

"Look I'm not happy about leaving you here alone. A restraining order is well and good if someone abides by it." Emile was far from convinced that Basil didn't know where she was living and was reluctant to leave her alone.

"I'm fine," she assured him again firmly and walked him to the door. "Thanks for all your help. I really am very grateful. I have an alarm system. I rarely set it but I will tonight. It's connected to the security firm and they'll come immediately."

"I'll call you in the morning." Undecided he stood on the stoop.

"Emile, I'm really fine. I really do appreciate your concern and help." Holding out her hand, he shook it and held on for a moment until she freed hers. He knew he had to leave her and did so reluctantly, looking back as he climbed into his Alfa Romeo. He peered anxiously through the windscreen as she closed the door, leaving the outside light on, wondering if he should stay on guard all night but felt she would resent the intrusion.

Inside she leant against the door. Still in shock, she just wanted to be left alone, pull up the drawbridge, lower the portcullis and fill the moat with alligators so she could close down emotionally. Setting the alarm system, she checked all the window locks, drew the curtains which she seldom did, double checked the doors and locks, turned off the lights and walked into the bedroom.

Sitting down on the bed she was too exhausted to clean the makeup off her face or shower.

Leaning forward she let the tears flow. Crying for all that had been, and perhaps for what was to come. How she wished she'd never met Basil but it was all too late now. Finally she curled up on the bed and drew the duvet cover over her. Sleep was a long time coming and fitful at best.

At seven in the morning, the phone rang. "I'm sorry to call so early, "Emile apologized, "but I was so concerned I couldn't wait. I haven't slept well all night and I bet you haven't either."

"You're right," she admitted, "but I'm not going to be Basil's victim."

Emile was pleased to hear the strength back in her voice. "Let me come and get you and take you down to the police station," he offered.

"It's okay, I can do it on my own." Again she protested.

"Then let me have a coffee with you afterwards, just to make sure you're alright." Emile walked across the kitchen and reaching into the fridge pulled out a bottle of freshly squeezed orange juice his housekeeper had left for him. Walking to the bench he opened a cupboard, took down a glass and filled it. "I'm not giving up until I see you are alright and the police are going to do something."

Colette knew he meant what he said. "Alright then," she acquiesced. "I'll meet you at the Java Nations Coffee Shop in the Main Street Shopping Cove afterwards, around 11am".

"Yes, I know it. Great."

Chapter 27- The Hamptons

The session at the police station went pretty much as she expected, they viewed it as just another domestic. They had more serious crimes to check out. After all Murder Inc in the Hamptons had been rounded up. But they promised to look into it and warn Basil.

Afterwards she walked down to the café in the main street to meet Emile.

"I hope this is not imposing on you as I'm sure you're very busy with your work." Colette sat down at the wrought iron table outside the café and looked out at the boats lazily bobbing up and down in the harbor like contented matrons nodding at a Sunday picnic. Breathing in the view, it was balm to her troubled soul.

"Look at me Colette," Emile said gently.

Turning to look at him, she couldn't handle the concern on his face and tears started in her eyes threatening to spill over. Embarrassed, she reached into her purse and fumbled for a tissue.

"Here." He handed her a paper napkin from the table and she dabbed at her eyes annoyed at herself.

"Damn, I'm not usually this precious," she muttered.

"Come on," he encouraged her. "You don't have to be strong. That was a frightening experience last night. What are the police going to do?"

"Look into it." She shrugged. "I'm sure they think I'm just another hysterical divorced woman who has blown everything out of proportion. Particularly when they found out I was a writer. I could see the look in the detective's eyes. Unstable woman writer. The patronizing prick." She wiped her eyes again. "Don't know why I bothered to put on any makeup."

Emile thought she looked ravishing just as she was. "You don't need it," he assured her. Turning to the waitress waiting by the table he ordered two coffees. "How do you like yours Colette?"

"A Vienna thanks." A watery smile broke through and Emile thought a real one would reach one thousand watts and chase away any gray clouds that dared to threaten the late winter's day. "I hope this is not interfering with your work," she insisted.

"I'm fine. I have an assistant and a personal assistant and they keep things ticking over. I'm pretty lucky. Get a lot of referrals."

Colette noticed what a nice warm smile he had. It reached into his eyes and radiated a warmth that made her feel she was sitting beside a warm fire toasting crumpets. "You silly woman," she scolded herself.

When the waitress brought the coffee she gratefully raised it to her lips and took a sip relishing the flavor. "Mmmm, that's so good."

"Colette, can I see you again. Maybe dinner?" Emile urged as he leaned forward and picked up his own coffee. "I was going to wait a couple of weeks and ask you for coffee but I like you and would like to be around you with all this nastiness going on."

Carefully she put her cup back in the saucer and backpedaled at 100 miles an hour. "That's really nice of you," she stammered. "I like you as well Emile and I'm grateful for all your help but I have a deadline to meet and must focus on my manuscript. I have to look for a house too." Desperately she sought to escape any involvement with this man, no matter how nice he appeared to be. Life with Basil had left her too raw and vulnerable.

"I don't like to think of you there alone there," Emile pressed on. "How long before you complete the manuscript?"

"A few weeks at the outside. I think he's spent his anger and we'll see what the police say!"

"Promise me you'll ring me and tell me what happens. Here's my number." Reaching into his pocket Emile brought out his wallet and took out a business card. Turning it over him wrote his personal telephone number on the back. "Anytime, day or night. If you need me, just call."

She smiled at him. "I promise I will," and raised the cup to her lips, having no intentions of letting him into her life. Writing the novel was safe. Not for her the recycling of dormant emotions.

"Perhaps we could meet for lunch once you have completed the book. I could help you look at houses also. Let me know when you have a few lined up and I'll tell you if they could be a problem or not." He could understand her focus and dedication. It was the same when he was designing a house for a customer.

"That's sounds like a fine idea. I'd appreciate that." Colette was panicking, she needed to get home and lock herself away.

"Can I ring you each day just to make sure you are fine?"

"It's really not necessary."

"Please Colette. Absolutely no strings attached. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you."

"I'll be fine really. I'm a big girl now."

"I know you are and that you are fiercely independent but you're vulnerable there on your own. Please," he pleaded.

Colette stood and gathered up her belongings. "I'd like that." Reaching across the table she placed her hand over his. Relenting she told him. "I would really like that." And was very surprised to find she meant it.

watched her drive away after they had said their goodbyes. It was obvious she was running scared but he wasn't convinced that Basil could not find her again. After that a terrible experience he was determined to keep an eye on her.

A few days later the doorbell pealed as she was in the garden picking flowers to put on her desk. The loved the scent wafting around her as she wrote. Hurrying inside, she put the flowers down on the kitchen bench and walked into the hall to open the door.

"Ma'am I'm Detective Grahamson." The short stocky man standing outside announced himself. "I'm here to discuss your complaint."

"Come in," she invited, leading him into the drawing room where she indicated a large easy chair. "Take a seat."

Settling onto the sofa facing him she waited.

"Ma'am your husband refutes your claim and says you are a hysterical woman bent on revenge."

"Yes he would. I told you a friend drew up behind me after it was over and Basil tried to wave him on."

"Ma'am, we interviewed your friend as well and he really cannot add much to this apart from reporting how shook up you were. The car was simply waving him on when he arrived. You already told us it was not his Jaguar but an SUV. This could have been anyone, there are lots of crazies out there."

"Look, I'm not an hysterical woman, my husband man was stalking me prior to this and I had to get a restraining order. I saw his face clearly."

"I know, but there wasn't any proof then either, only your word. Your husband said he was at his Club with his lawyer who verified this. We checked with the Club steward who also confirmed your husband was there. There's nothing we can do under those circumstances but we did warn him to stay away from you." The detective fidgeted with his cap, anxious to be away.

How the hell did he manage that Colette wondered? Sure his sleazeball lawyer would lie for him but what about the Club Steward? She supposed anyone could be bribed. "This man is a law unto himself." Colette was angry now. "A ruthless, merchant banker who thinks he can get away with anything. And it looks as though he is right. I know this man. I lived with him for two years. He doesn't like losing, even a wife."

"Ma'am, I can't comment on that. We'll drive by each evening for the next month and just make sure everything is fine." Seeking to reassure her as he stood up and moved towards the door.

"Thanks for that." Colette saw him out and absorbed herself in her work. It was her saving grace in times of tribulation.

Chapter 28 – Russia 2005

Like all Russian hotshots Arkadiy was flamboyant. Living for the moment and up to the hilt. Hot and cold running women. If they were cold they were soon taught to heat up or become permanently cold. Hot running water in his apartment in Moscow of all places, where most of the citizens couldn't even rely on cold running water. The best Caspian Sea caviar, salmon, imported delicacies and cheeses, whilst the populace ate stale black bread and cheese. Along with his team of enforcers he rode around in bulletproof Mercedes, whilst the unreliable Ladas driven by the good citizens of Russia if they were extremely lucky, were a road hazard.

No, the good life was too good to give up. He would have to swallow his arrogance and anger and live with the supercilious haughty English prick. He doubted he could get his prick up, unlike a good Russian with fire in the belly and loins. No fire in the belly of that icy bastard. He was like a douche of cold ice water.

Arkadiy's entire life had been spent surviving on the edge of danger. It was second nature to him. Being born in the USSR and surviving until today was a major achievement.

Still he had to admit to a niggling concern when he thought about his Pakhan who would not tolerate ructions in the Cartel. Maybe he had better swallow his pride and let the Israeli blyad (whore) have his way.

Russia going belly up had been most fortuitous for him, opening up a realm of possibilities previously outside his reach. And it had gotten him out of that god forsaken dingy building, the Lubyanka. His comparisons at the time had been fairly limited and the edifice had been a castle compared to those in Hungary, Poland and the Stasi's headquarters in the Ministry for State Security in Berlin-Lichtenberg, East Germany.

"God, what a hole that was." Arkadiy turned up his nose in distaste remembering the conditions of the prison in the bowels of the Lubyanka. The smell of torture and death could never be eradicated despite the best efforts of the cleaning crews. Like the overwhelming smell of rotting flesh in a morgue, the stench seemed to hang around, seeping into the corridors and would wend its way upstairs, in the clothes and in the marrow of the torturers, who delighted in the myriad ways it was possible to obtain confessions from the guilty and the innocent; and those that supervised their gentle ministrations, giving the nod at the choice between life and death.

The screams of dissidents echoing down the long hallways during endless hours of interrogation under piercing night lights in the cells would remain in his memory forever he supposed. Most of them went crazy as they were kept in isolation from everyone but their jailers.

Those had been heady days indeed, even if the zeal of some of the enforcers had caused torrents of vomit and blood that one had to step lively to avoid stains on a pristine uniform.

Without connections you clawed your way up the ladder towards the glittering prize at the top and could not afford to be squeamish. A natural aptitude for learning and cruelty were a distinct advantage to better oneself at any cost. Your value increased momentously. Here one could slot in at one third to one half of the way up the ladder. Then it was up to you to make the connections that would push you far in your current career.

Arkadiy went it for it with all guns blazing and been content with his achievements in the KGB.

Now he had realized the ultimate being the right hand man to the one at the top. His Pakhan's enforcer if you like. He prided himself at making it thus far and sometimes allowed himself to daydream. Could he take over his master's position someday?

As the son of a Ukrainian peasant whose lot since the Revolution had been pretty bleak indeed, he had done extremely well. An innate cunning, born of centuries avoiding the Tzar's armies on the rampage, stood him well in his chosen career.

A natural intelligence had broken through once exposed to education under the Bolsheviks. Who knew how many generations it had lain dormant whilst his ancestors tilled the soil under collectivization and razed the countryside as brave Cossacks.

Perhaps it was a rogue gene introduced into his family's DNA by the rape of a servant girl toiling away in some luxurious mansion in the cities. "Or perhaps a palace," he fantasized. Truth be told with the continual intermarriage between the enfeebled royal families of Europe, where the gene pool was highly questionable, the result did not make for healthy, robust progeny, neither mentally or physically. It took the good stock of a peasant with natural ability to inject a little oomph into the diseased lineages at a Royal Court.

Perhaps he was descended from the Rogue Monk Rasputin, who had made the most of his opportunities and was far from celibate. Arkadiy rather fancied that idea.

"No," he decided. "It was his good Cossack genes, which no amount of persecution could eradicate."

But his life today outshone the advances he had made. To start with the pay and benefits far exceeded those of his former employment. He would do whatever it took to ensure this lifestyle never ended.

What passed as a heart leapt with joy as Arkadiy negotiated arms deals with different factions around the world for his oligarch who had his complete loyalty. The Israeli Jew Lemontov, knew his master supplied arms to the Middle East, but appeared indifferent.

Arkadiy suspected that deep down inside Ira's black soul, hidden from the sight of man, his love extended no further than himself and the glittering gemstones he smuggled across the world. "He's no different to anyone else. They sneer about my country trying to subdue the satellites with the heel of our boot on their necks or by the threat of nuclear conflagration. What is his country doing now to Palestine? He doesn't seem to be too concerned about where we sell our plutonium and nuclear warheads, nor our chemical weapons." Arkadiy indulged in some deep dark thoughts about Ira.

Well he couldn't concern himself with the ultimate results of his own wheeling and dealing. It was simply business. His master had commodities for sale and Arkadiy's job was to sell them to the highest bidder. Race, color and creed didn't come into it. Neither were either of them burdened with a conscience.

He left that to the bleeding hearts of the world and suspected Ira did as well. After all, in reality, it gave them a job didn't it? 'What the hell would they do with their insignificant lives if it wasn't for us?' Grudgingly he included Ira in his considerations. 'If we had not chosen to work with him where would he be today? Nowhere. He was just another ex-military thug who sold his soul and was dabbling around in conflict diamonds before we partnered up with him.'

Arkadiy completed overlooked the fact the at the back of Ira was the Israeli government, who were prepared to suffer this ignominious partnership only as long as it benefited them. It gave the Russian Mafia the chance to wash its dirty money clean.

Moreover, he further suspected that Ira's belief in Yahweh was pretty non-existent which made his actions easier to bear. "Bastard just pays lip service to the omnipotent God of his race to further his own ambitions."

The Russian sympathized. Eighty percent of Russians had held no religious beliefs after almost 100 years of communism. It would take a deep faith to maintain a belief in a loving God under life during successive Tzars' reigns if you were not one of the nobility, which had made the embracing of communism easy when the Bolsheviks took power. After all, it had appeared the heavenly ruler had favored only the wealthy on earth. They still drifted in a miasma of futility trying to carve out an existence under the new regime.

What a pass it had come to, when the once mighty Russian army could not be paid by an ungrateful government, after they had fought fiercely and bravely in the service of their country.

They drifted around the world as mercenaries, like the expendable soldiers of other countries. Highly trained killers for whom their countries had no use in peacetime. They were let loose on a world that had no use for their specialized skills and where they could not function without the adrenalin high they got only from employing their trade. They sold themselves to mayhem, and murder, inured to death and the suffering they caused.

Ex-Israeli army soldiers were deep in the heart of the brisk business of death. American Green Berets and Rangers, British SAS, once considered the glory boys of the wars they fought in. Dysfunctional in normal society, they were thrown on the scrap heap. French foreign legion inmates let loose on the world. Belgians, remnants of their vicious rule in the Congo, happy to return to continue terrifying the populace.

Arkadiy had met with ex-military men who ran highly priced consultancies, providing these misfits with jobs in far flung corners of the globe. For a price, they provided the cream of the crop to high powered businesses that would not require their services if they were engaged in legitimate enterprises, and this by no means excluded powerful corporations.

"If they want to foist their corrupt practices on the people of other countries, forcing them to accede to their demands in the global village, whilst they take over the peasant's lands, we'll help them." Arkadiy had not been able to believe his ears at the forthrightness of a President of one such company, when he was searching for employment after Perestroika and Glasnost. "They promise a better lifestyle for the landowners, and then pay them and the workers peanuts while they drag huge profits from the soil, ensuring the price of edible crops remained high. To subdue any revolts, we will supply them with whatever they want."

The Russian had looked around to ensure he was in the west and not still in his native land, as the consultant laid it out for him.

"Self interested incumbents govern by lobby groups, who pour huge amounts of money into their campaigns, so are obligated to pave the way for them. Your role is to make covert intrusions, protect them while they wait at the borders and when the opportune moment presents itself, help them establish this regime by force; and protect the powerbrokers in their own countries and abroad. There is always the danger of insurgency, but a single target is easier to take out. The insurgents don't realize any man can be replaced in a heartbeat, so assassination is a rewarding sideline."

"Jesus." Arkadiy had thought he was back in the USSR under Stalin's rule. "Covert operations. He died and they got rich on his blood."

"Conspiracies abound in every corner of the globe, there is plenty of work for you." The man had continued.

After briefly considering this proposition, he decided taking his chances with the Russian Mafia was preferable. It would be more profitable and he was not really a gun toting foot soldier.

Arkadiy hesitated, and then shrugged. "Thanks, but no thanks." He told the consultant. "You're safely out of danger's way and get paid huge fees for putting me at risk. Not for me I'm afraid." And turned his back on business opportunities in the West. He would go it alone and find someone who appreciated the skills he had on offer.

"Suit yourself." It was no skin off his nose. "Plenty more where he came from, queuing up for the work. These KGB assholes were a pain in the neck anyway. Their skills in the field were not what he was really seeking. What did he know about penetration and seek and destroy. He was no real loss."

His efforts had paid off, whilst very few of the other poor bastards lived long enough to tell the tale. Those employed in assassinations became targets to cover up the truth. He enjoyed the same life of luxury those prospective employers lived.

The veils had been well and truly stripped from his eyes and made a mockery of the indoctrination of his former occupation. He was not about to lose his current luxurious lifestyle, no matter what he had to do to keep it in his avaricious grip.

No-one could call Arkadiy a slouch in his chosen profession. Looking back on his career choice, it had been a wild and rocky ride.

However, it beat the hell out of that as a foot soldier still carrying a gun and carving out a life as mercenaries in some God awful cesspit of a country, where nations were carving out economic opportunities that Big Business was demanding.

They barged in and fed off the countryside like cockroaches scavenging for food in their daily drive for survival, under the guise of providing jobs for the locals and a higher standard of living. Leaving in their wake a demoralized populace who turned to drink and drugs, provided by yet other foreign entrepreneurs, to escape the poverty of their lives, whilst bleeding hearts bleated, powerless to stop the bloodshed

Chapter 29 – New York June 2006

Conscience clear, Basil settled back into the button back leather chair safely ensconced in his Wall Street Club, lit his illegally obtained cigar and drew back on it contentedly. Membership was restricted to the elite, who had provided him with entré because of his usefulness to them. It rather reminded him of the hallowed halls of the high and mighty in England.

Good God, if he was good enough to belong to the Lansdowne Club in Mayfair, he was certainly entitled to the same privilege of belonging to a top rate one in the once outpost of the glorious British Empire.

Comfortably rambling through his confused mind, was one of his current favorite subjects. How he had gotten away with frightening the shit out of that bitch, Colette. He didn't regret the exorbitant annual retainer paid to the bank's lawyers. At times like this, it was worth it.

Admittedly, thoughts of killing Colette appeared to have a pre-eminent position in his thoughts these days. The familiar blackness began to cloud his mind. No-one cast him aside and got away with it. After all, he had a high profile position to maintain and was not done with her yet."

Time to put that aside and reflect upon his other favorite subject, money laundering and the Cartel. "What a windfall for him." Chortling quietly, he cast his mind over recent events. With the recent freefall in the free market, people were far more cautious about investing their money.

Thank God for the opportunity with the Cartel. It will make me a very wealthy and powerful man. They'll soon change their tune then.

Basil comfortably settled back and let his mind follow the evasive process of money laundering.

The ideal position today for money laundering, is to own a bank. As this can prove to be an Achilles heel to the criminal element, they need bankers they can trust; or the new generation to front one. Unfortunately the latter could be traced back, so it was not really an option.

"Thank goodness, because this is where I come in." For they required Basil's specialized skills. "Rent-a-bank, preferably an international high profile bank. Establish branches in tax havens, all very above board, don'tcha know. You're on your way." Moving his arm languidly, he flicked the ash off his cigar into the crystal ashtray placed on the side table alongside his chair. "How amusing that the "little people" of the world, those boring moaning middle classes, were not aware of how endemic corruption was in high places, on all continents, across the globe. Or if they were, they were powerless to do anything about it."

Basil was not about to lose sleep over it. Birthright had disenfranchised him, but did he sit back and moan? Not he, who had learnt his lessons well, at the feet of masters, in childhood. 'Power to the people my ass.' Nasty thoughts trampling through his mind. 'Give the middle class enough money to remain apathetic, make them work hard for it, and they will keep the lower classes in their place. No one was more ruthless than the middle class when they acquired riches. Typical herd mentality.'

Power to the elite few and he was determined to be one of them, no matter what it took. Nor was that moralizing bitch he had married, going to deprive him of the satisfaction. God knows his first wife, being British of course, had understood and borne it all with a stiff upper lip.

Basil felt elated at the thought of how clever he was. Take dirty money, earned through illicit means, wash it through the international washing machine, blow dry it through a couple of companies to hide the real owner, and channel it back into legal cash. So called, because the original Mafia bunch in the US, owned Laundromats through which they channeled all the ill gotten gains from their many nefarious activities. The ancient tradition of crime does pay, pays bloody well to the few at the top. Everyone knew that. Not so well, if you're down the bottom of the pile. But they were all at it, right down to the street handlers for drugs and mules for diamonds.

Greed is endemic, unstoppable and only token "sacrifices" are made from time to time.

Why do governments appear helpless in the face of this? Because they're complicit. Basil was astounded at the naivety of the masses in the USA and other countries, in electing some of their leaders. Their corruption stuck out like a dog's balls and still they slid into the positions of power. If they couldn't win legally, they stole in and were governing illegally.

In Russia, criminal groups (mostly run by ex-KGB officers), control most of the banks and exchanges. Not surprisingly, there are not many applicants for the job of bank chairman in Russia. It's a short lived experience at best, with numerous assassination attempts against top banking officials. Quite a few successful.

"If those damned Russians laid off the Stolichnaya and weren't so bloody volatile, they could clean up their act, manage their country and its industries, slot in legitimately and function as smoothly in the global village conspiracy as we do." Basil thought. "Damn Slavs, it just seems to be beyond them to control their emotions. Oh well," Sloughing them from his mental processes, he was pleased it meant more opportunities for him"

"Corruption at high levels was common knowledge," Basil smugly considered what the masses could do about it? "Continue with their puny little demonstrations? Provide aid for disenfranchised peoples, which ended up in the pockets of the corrupt elite of countries? Race off to nurse the sick, the hungry? Well if that made them feel better, let them." From his superior position in life, he really didn't care a jot. "It would never result in more power to the people. The stratospheric elite, who controlled the finances of the world, would make sure of that. Too much at stake."

Ruminating about the world of cyber payments, Basil could hardly contain his glee. "Thank God the Internet and smart cards had been invented." In Russia and some East European States, banks can be readily purchased for very little money. The problem is, too few of them are electronically hooked up with SWIFT, a co-op society based in Belgium, with member institutions in many countries. This is the principal international service for wire transfer message traffic, which initiates funds transfers and is linked directly to securities brokers and dealers, clearing institutions, and recognised securities exchanges.

The taxman is very worried about E-Cash. While fruitlessly casting around for a way to catch ill gotten gains in his net, he concentrates on the common man only. As the Internet connects instantly anywhere in the world, tracing money is virtually impossible. Allowing cross border movements of capital to take place instantly, the transaction remain untraceable. It provides the user with the interface into the Internet payment system that stores value. Encryption software makes these transactions totally secure.

Another system that is rechargeable, is stored value cards like MONDEX debit card. Financial services institutions were playing with the concept of a re-loadable pre-paid debit card for which there is no formal bank account in the background, to move the great unbanked into their willing reach. You simply place the card in a special slot in an ATM and voila, access device and a self contained store of value.

The Banking Regulators had gone into a flurry at the commissions that could escape their grasp as technology improved and barriers to the free movement of capital had been reduced. Tossing their toys out of the cot, they had rushed to impose regulations.

What went on behind the scenes was no-one else's business, as his bank laundered selective dirty linen of the world. Scared of losing the profits they had enjoyed for so long, the banks huddled together as the regulators put the onus on those working in banking and financial institutions to police movement of ill gotten gains.

Issuing the Basle Statement of Principles on the prevention of criminal use of the banking system for the purpose of money laundering, the Statement of Principles does not restrict itself to drug-related money laundering, but extends to all aspects of laundering through the banking system. It includes the deposit, transfer and/or concealment of money derived from illicit activities whether robbery, terrorism, fraud or drug. Expensive compliance systems were put in place to police this, including training of staff who were liable for any infringement which would incur large financial penalties or even jail.

Even allowing for initial and recurring costs, they are small change in comparison to the overall costs in the financial sector which run into the billions of dollars. Suddenly bank staff were living in a police state, with the responsibility to check new customers out, check their colleagues and dob 'em in if you thought anything was suspicious. Talk about the Third Reich and East Germany's Stasi.

The banks came back, highlighting the rules relating to customer confidentiality. Well there it was, an out. The criminal element hardly blinked. Regulations are a great thing if you can enforce them, but when it's a choice between legality and your life, there is no contest.

How effective had it been? Well, Basil's Cartel was flying, laundering massive amounts of money and they were only one of many using the tried and tested method. Basil had taken to it like a duck to water. One would think the man had a natural aptitude for crime.

Cash in (sometimes with staff complicity, or mixed with the proceeds of legitimate transactions). Cash out. Wire transfers abroad (often using shell companies or funds disguised as proceeds of legitimate business), then cover-up. False loan repayments or forged invoices used as cover for laundered money.

Cash out, deposited in overseas banking system. Handy little Channel Islands. Complex web of transfers (both domestic and international) makes the tracing of the original source of funds virtually impossible. Cash used to buy high value goods, property or business assets. Resale of goods/assets. Income from property or legitimate business assets appears clean.

As he contentedly drew back on his cigar and smelled the wonderful aroma when he exhaled, he thought of amusement about the limits imposed that were meant to trigger alarm bells. It simply forced the crooks to launder to the set limit amount. A bit more laborious but the result was worth it.

Even Casino punters get around this by stopping short of the limit and come back another night. Voila, tax-free.

"Surely it must be time to go into dinner." Basil stirred and looked around to see if there was anyone he would care to share a table with. There were a few he most certainly did not want for company.

My God." Basil chortled to himself. "It was like the Wild West in the days of Al Capone when the term money laundering was coined. Must have been a huge shock to Al Capone when he was prosecuted and convicted of tax evasion; rather than the nefarious crimes which generated his illicit income. Bet he was thoroughly pissed with Meyer Lansky, who was termed The Mob's Accountant after that.

Still Meyer learned from that. Determined the same fate would not befall him Meyer set about searching for ways to hide money. Before the year was out after Capone was jailed, he

had discovered the benefits of numbered Swiss Bank Accounts, like many other that came before and followed him."

"That Meyer Lansky was a bright lad, but of course he was a Jew, and they had centuries to refine the art of usury. To give him his due however." Basil reflected. "Using the Swiss facilities, gave him the means to incorporate one of the first real laundering techniques, the use of the "loan-back" concept, which was still in place to this day. The beauty of this method was that hitherto illegal money could now be disguised by loans provided by compliant foreign banks, which could be declared to the revenue if necessary, and a tax-deduction obtained into the bargain." Basil rubbed his hands together in glee.

Now money laundering is a truly global phenomenon. Everyone was at it. Snouts in the public trough and guzzling as fast as they could. When one financial centre closes business for the day, another one is opening or open for business. Twenty-four hour a day availability. You can't beat that.

Of course Governments paid lip service to stopping the criminal organisations. The huge profits earned from drugs or other means, could contaminate and corrupt the structures of the state at all levels but they were fighting a losing battle.

"Time to move on." Looking around, Basil spied his lawyer enter the Club's smoking room and raised his hand to gain his attention. His partner in crime was quite pleasant company for a meal. Realising Basil would take any refusal as a personal affront, and not wanting to put the firm's stratospheric annual retainer at risk, his lackey fell into line. Best to play the game and put up with his company. He was an odd one, this Basil Mortimer.

Chapter 30 – The Hamptons July 2006

One evening as Colette was working late on the manuscript; something disturbed the air making Colette feel nervous. Shaking it off, she told herself she was just tired. Then she heard a noise on the deck. Looking up, she saw a face at the French doors leading onto the deck and let out an involuntary cry.

In a flash the face vanished. Jumping up, she ran over, opened the door and stepped outside. No-one was there. Had she imagined it? Then she heard a car start up and speed off. Never thinking she could be in danger, she ran to the gate and looked over it in the direction the noise appeared to have come from. There was nothing she could see. Remaining on the spot she began to question whether that was a figment of her imagination also. A smell of exhaust assailed here nostrils and she knew she wasn't going crazy.

Shaking, she returned to the house. Could it have been Basil, stalking her again? "No." she told herself. 'I'm not wrong. There really had been someone looking in at me.' Thoughts scrambled around in her mind. 'Maybe he has hired a private detective to track me down. Maybe it was his face I saw.' A sense of unease overcame her. Apparently she was not safe yet.

It was pointless to burden Ellie and Floyd, or anyone else, with her suspicions. The police would dismiss it out of hand. For now, she would keep it to herself but be vigilant.

At last the manuscript was finished. Striking the last key, Colette stretched to ease the tension out of her neck. The last three weeks had been spent reviewing and editing her work which required intense concentration. Well worth it though as she felt comfortable releasing it to her agent now.

On her desk was the completed manuscript of My Father's Mansions. This new manuscript was light years away from her normal stories, venturing into the world of espionage thrillers. Her murderess was a chilling psychopath with a tortured soul.

Rifling through the pages she hoped her existing readers would like it and she would attract a new group of readers. The first few chapters were strong and raw with no escape from the desperate emotions that tore at your throat.

#####

##### First Chapter – Through a lonely dysfunctional marriage fraught with chaos and confusion, in which I existed alone as though I was trapped in a bubble, I looked at, and went through life looking from the inside of that bubble at the world beyond, unable to express myself or say what I truly felt, thought and wanted. Nor am I alone in this. I have the company of mankind.

Entering into a second highly dysfunctional marriage my life shattered yet again. I forged myself in cold hard steel and set my face against the world and pitted myself against it in an endeavor to survive. I became me. Not the true me, but the me I have developed so I could exist in this uncaring world.

Worse, my children's lives shattered again and again and again, until two fragile confused souls were adrift in a world fraught with dangers and only able to relate to other fragile, tortured souls, whom they automatically sought out.

So their lives shattered again and their children's lives shattered, and the dysfunctionality ran rampant, destroying all in its path.

The sins of the fathers visited upon the children.

In my father's house are many mansions.....

and only the greedy rich shall inhabit them while the downtrodden remain their slaves for all eternity.

My soul screams out and beats against this prison but there is no escape. I remain locked inside and roam the halls of my home in the dead of night, seeking to escape from bitter memories which are re-enacted as horror scenes in the present. They repeat and repeat to scar my children's lives and generations to come.

How I yearn for the release of death! But there is no release. My past holds me tight in its tentacles and slowly strangles my soul. Unwilling to release me from its grip. And so I roam the rooms at night, like the ghost of some medieval castle who is trapped forever – doomed from past to present to future. Sleep eludes me and I pace the halls while an indifferent world sleeps.

Upstairs my partner sleeps deeply in his bed in an attempt to escape his past and aloneness. Two battered weary souls that came together futilely trying to reach each other from their own separate bubble existences, beating their fragile wings against the walls in their endeavors to connect.

Baggage out, baggage in. Light moments of happiness appear briefly only to be snuffed out by further chaos, like a candle in a draught of that gloomy cold, stone castle. I am doomed to roam these halls forever until my past finally releases its hold on me at the moment of my death.

Fear and sickness lurk in the shadows, buried deeply, ready to rise in the night. They arouse me from deep sleep and raze my soul, when more chaos strikes. I struggle to rise above it whilst I deal with the new crisis, then succumb to an uneasy, temporary peace, until a new disaster surfaces and the treadmill begins all over again.

I have brokered a peace of sorts with life, which shatters from time to time with familiar disaster and the tears flow again. The heart freezes over, the soul that had struggled to heal withers and hides inside the bubble. A dysfunctional family shares a life and tries to repair a small piece of the damage but the impact on both sides is so great, that moments of happiness are but a fleeting myth. Physical pain is part of my lot as my battered body breaks down time and again under the emotional strain.

The powers behind the throne whip on the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, to ensure their already bloated coffers remain filled to overflowing and their hold on power absolute. Governments may topple but never the gray ghosts in the corridors of power, with their rampant lust for even more power and riches.

These obscene power brokers sleep well at night and are comfortable with what they see in their mirrors, not seeing the wretched twisted thing they have become for they are conscienceless.

Many people exist at subsistence level whilst the politicians rob the surplus, to detract from the stuttering economy and fund wars that only they and their cohorts, can, and will, benefit from, whilst the greater populace suffers yet again. They pile suffering upon suffering, as they plunder an already exhausted world, so that they and their offspring can indulge in indolent luxury at the expense of others' blood on the sand.

I know. I was one of them. Now cast aside when I finally developed a conscience. My withdrawal from public life as a key advisor to the President of the United States of America was announced today on television. Due to health reasons. I'm sick alright. Sick of the abuse of power, sick of the hypocrisy, the manipulation, the obscenity of it all. I will surely go mad if I remain in this role and so it is time.

I will make the obscene and the perpetrators, the victims. I have been close to these people so I know their movements, I know their weaknesses, I know the way they think and act, I know the way into the secure areas of their lives and their vulnerabilities. And so I begin my quest for reparation.

I was forged in the Halls of Valhalla. In my pain, I will attempt to heal other tortured souls who bear the same legacy of pain and suffering that feeds off the flesh of its victims.

Second Chapter – It is a fine sunny day as Jenny Rivers entered the Department of Social Services. She is the assistant director in the State of Washington.

Colette put down the manuscript, satisfied she had done her best.

### Chapter 31 – Tel Aviv 2005

Ira Lemontov was never happier than when he was plotting the plundering of the African nations from where he sourced the diamonds. With the mad dictators of the regions safely in his pocket, business was brisk.

Diamonds. He was seduced by their sparkling beauty and loved them with a passion far greater than any woman could stir in him. In Ira's view, women were there to pleasure and look after men and he did not have time to marry and produce a tribe.

Ira was not about to be distracted from amassing wealth and he was not fussy who he dealt with to achieve this. He made no apologies for the trade he was engaged in or the misery it brought to hundreds of thousands of people.

Nor could he afford to be complacent. Others were constantly sniffing at his heels, waiting for the smallest sign of weakness to destroy him.

Business of the day was ticking away very nicely when Basil again sought to draw attention to himself in an ensuing meeting.

"I notice that the diamond business in Antwerp is under threat from India and Thailand. A lot of the cutting is taking place there now. Should we be looking to move our stones to them?" He was delighted at his profundity.

"Are you a greater fool than I thought you were? I will not tolerate the Jewish enclave in Antwerp being deprived of our business. Its opportunistic fools like you who have created the problem they now face." Everyone at the table looked in amazement at Basil as Ira reacted quite violently to the suggestion. Thoughts of the profits that would be lost to him personally if such a suggestion were adopted, were not to be countenanced. The fool should be sticking to his money laundering. "Don't you realize the enormous effort it would take to reroute the diamonds? Whilst they remain in this continent we are able to monitor them. The moment they begin traveling that far afield, it would get completely out of control."

"Oooh." A small breath escaped Basil's mouth as he realized he had been imprudent.

"I told you he was a stupid man and therefore dangerous to our cause." Delighted with the turn of events Arkadiy couldn't resist the chance to deflate the banker. Pointing to Basil who glared back at him, it appeared these two just couldn't let up on each other.

Now Ami and Ira's focus was drawn to them both. What the hell? They thought the two men had gotten the message and their quarrelling was behind them. The animosity between the two men was thoroughly pissing off Ira, who was happy to put a snake and mongoose together as long as they worked for the good of the Cartel and ultimately, Ira.

"What the hell's the matter with you two? Don't you understand the need to stay tight?" Waking from his reverie, he pounced on Basil and Arkadiy again disdain dripping from every word. "Aren't the riches you are raking in enough to curb your pettiness? I won't countenance either of you indulging in this personal animosity. One more incident and I'll ensure both of you are replaced." Ira was deadly serious. He did not intend to let either of these undisciplined oafs threaten his network, or he would personally ensure they would be seen to.

Truth be told, Ira had been unsettled by the amount of diamonds finding their way from Sierra Leone to India and Thailand. It had made huge inroads into the workforce in Antwerp and many of the men, as breadwinners of the family, were seeking retraining in order to feed their families. What a sorry state of affairs.

It was time for him to investigate the purchase of controlling shares in a mine in Sierra Leone, so he could manage the process from whoa to go. God knows that vicious bastard Sankoh would be quick to put his hand out for a healthy sum. Thank God he had Mossad and their financial strength behind him.

Diamantaire (diamond brokers) worldwide were concerned as the price of diamonds dropped with the influx of the conflict diamonds from Africa. The diamond district in New York was full of Jewish men in frock coats and hats, feverishly racing around trying to drum up more business.

And agitators competing to fund the Middle Eastern war weren't far behind them.

Ira wasn't happy with the turn of events. Just when things had been ticking over nicely for over a decade, the cozy internecine wars were grinding to a halt. Sighing, he had to admit the many arms merchants' greed had saturated the marketplace for the merchandise.

'Where had all those greedy Russians come from?" he considered. The arms had been pouring out of the Ukraine and Monrovia. Once the cork had been pulled out of the bottle, and the arms genie let loose on the world, there had been no stopping the avalanche.

Personally Ira had enough to see him through this lifetime. He did not doubt for one moment, that the Russian Oligarch who wheeled and dealt with these unstable people had enough money to last him for two or three lifetimes. In Ira's experience it was not enough for them to become obscenely wealthy and retire. The power they garnered was too difficult to walk away from. No matter that they were dealing with the crazies of the modern world.

The nation of Israel did not need a sudden upsurge of countries who had been slumbering since they crawled out from under the British Raj, barging their way into a livelihood Jewry excelled at. 'Upstarts,' he snorted to himself.

Never considering himself particularly patriotic, he enjoyed the kudos and social standing it had brought to him and was reluctant to see it disappear down the drain of the current fiasco.

'Damn computerization! Damn the Indians and Thais educating themselves! Damn the rest of the world!' Ira fumed to himself. His small nation had enough to contend with.

"Over the years interested external parties in Africa have made it quite clear, that if the government dared to stand up to them they would impose sanctions on goods and services making it impossible to sell their resources. Between their own governments and outsiders they've been beaten into the ground," Basil contributed to the conversation.

"The United Nation bleats and moans but does nothing." Ira's contempt for that august body was pretty evident. "Why would they? Five of the nations supplying the African nations with armaments sit on the Security Council. Still it suits us. While we can, we have to maximize our production and profits from them."

Africa was still open to the whores of greed. The tinpot dictators who built themselves palaces whilst their people suffered, and their rebel leaders, still believed in superstition and juju. Who cared if the ruler was two steps away from a witchdoctor and held a spear in his hand in this modern age.

"It works to our advantage." Arkadiy was determined to have the last word. "Luckily for us external governments' interests continue to destablize these areas. Perhaps we should give them a helping hand."

"Enough for now," Ira pulled Arkadiy up smartly. "We keep a low profile you fool."

Arkadiy did not like being rebuked publicly any more than Basil did but swallowed any retort. Rumors had drifted back to his Oligarch and he had been told to call in the dogs.

Basil looked smug at the other man's discomfort and just could not resist a dig. "You don't want another Afghanistan do you?"

Korshanenko turned on him furiously. "You arrogant bastard. Your stupid little island with its outdated notions of power are nothing compared with Mother Ruskaya. People like you and your kind weakened your nation." Pushing himself away from the table, he appeared ready to launch himself at Basil.

The dogs of war were at it again.

"Stop this now!" Ira was seething. "If you don't control yourselves you're out." Neither were irreplaceable and were certainly expendable. He cast a sideways look at Ami who nodded imperceptibly.

Commonsense finally found its way through to the core of some brain cell in the two men as his command brought them back to reality. Neither wanted to lose the riches and power they were garnering for the first time in their lives. Repercussions from their principals would be swift and sure. An unspoken agreement passed between them. The hostilities would cease for now for their mutual benefit.

Ira understood the dynamics of world power and revelled in being at its centre.

After 5000 years Israel was a nation once more, poised to regain all that the Jews had lost many centuries ago. Of course they had to fight for it. It had been a long time coming, but now the western powers needed Israel as their foothold in the Middle East and Israel was making sure it cost them dearly. It was payback time.

Ira Lemontov was the friend of the powerful. He had come a long way and intended to protect his interests at all costs.

Chapter 32 – A History of the Middle East

The Israeli/Palestinian conflict is the legacy of the ambitions of the British and their promises made during World War 1 to the French, Arabs and Jews, if they would support them.

Prior to the end of WWI, Palestine was part of the Ottoman Empire but with their defeat at the hands of the Allied forces, Britain was granted control of the region by the League of Nations, the precursor to the United Nations.

The Zionists claimed Palestine as a Jewish homeland even though the early movement had considered several locations from Uganda to Argentina. The founder Theodore Herzl, argued Jews should leave Europe and form a Jewish state somewhere else rather than continue with the futility of opposing anti-Semitism.

On 31st October 1917 while the war was still far from over, the British government stated in a declaration issued under the name of the British Foreign Secretary, Lord Balfour, that it viewed with favor the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people – it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine.

After the Allied victory it was time for Britain to deliver on the conflicting promises to both the Arabs and the Jews. The Arabs were promised independence for a United Arab country, covering most of the Arab Middle East; and the Jews were promised a national home as set out in the Balfour declaration. In a secret agreement, the French were promised land in the Middle East also.

Given that Lord Balfour himself was a raving anti-Semite, the spokesman for Zionism, Chaim Weizzman, an astute statesman, understood far better than the Arab leaders at that time that the future of the Middle East would be not be determined by the desires of its inhabitants. The region was of great importance, designed to meet the political agenda of Great Britain Great Power rivalries and European strategic thinking.

The mandate was problem ridden in this mainly Muslim area with a small percentage of Jews, Bedouin and Druze. In order to mollify the Hashemite Husayn for the loss of the Jejaz to Ibn Saud of Saudi Arabia and for his support during WW1, the Kingdom of Jordan was created including all of the area east of the Jordan River from Palestine. To this day the decision remains a thorn in the side of the Zionists.

In the 1930's and 1940's, Labour Zionists typified by David Ben Gurion, wanted peaceful collaboration with the Arabs in Palestine. However there were religious zealots in the Zionist factions that wanted nothing less than the return of the Holy Land to Jewry and opposed peaceful co-existence from the outset.

While the bulk of British military and intelligence circles in the Middle East were ostensibly pro-Arab, one devout Intelligence agent Orde Wingate, was sent to Palestine to train Jewish leaders in terror tactics against the Arabs and work against Ben Gurion. He established the terror against terror tradition of Israel's military and intelligence forces.

This agent was a Zionist who could not see past Britain's dominance as a world power and realised Palestine was essential to the waning Empire. He saw the chance to plant in Palestine and Transjordan, a loyal, rich and intelligent nation, which would hold for Britain the key to world dominion without expense or effort on their part. His cousin was the legendary Lawrence of Arabia who was one of the Arab handlers for British Intelligence.

Orde Wingate was a cruel provocateur and the Special Night Squads he formed would torture and kill Arabs in violation of Ben Gurion's policy of self-restraint. Allegations were many, sometimes by shocked Jewish followers from civilian backgrounds. Those terrorist units gave rise to the Irgun and the Stern Gang and to a philosophical tradition among his trainees.

After the Second World War, the British resented the shiploads of desperate Jewish refugees arriving in Palestine seeking asylum from the madness of Hitler's Third Reich and its aftermath. They interned them in detention camps or deported them to other places such as Mauritius. They shot at the boats as the desperate refugees courageously ran the blockade and whilst many landed on the beaches, a great number were turned away, or died at the gateway of the promised land.

The first act of terrorism on Israeli soil was performed by the Israelis themselves as the Irgun gang blew up the King David Hotel, the headquarters of the British administration, killing 92 people in 1946.

Losing control fast the British indicated they wished to terminate their mandate and withdrew in May 1946. Civil and ethnic unrest was the result as huge numbers of Jewish refugees flooded the area and the Palestinians felt threatened.

By this time the main power broker of the United Nations was America, who took over from the British as the main imperial force in the Middle East. Endorsing the Zionists' plan for a Jewish state in Palestine, they partitioned Palestine into Jewish and Arab states. This resulted in the Jewish settlers getting fifty five percent of the area despite the Palestinians being the greater population.

Then Zionist militias set out on a campaign to drive almost one million Palestinians from their homes. Most of the territory given to the Arab state by the United Nations was effectively seized by the Zionists.

In 1967 with a military power provisioned by American and European interests, in a 6 day War, Israel seized the West Bank, Gaza, Syria's Golan Heights and Egypt's Sinai Peninsula.

Every country in the world, including the United States called for them to withdraw from the occupied territories and endorsed the resolutions drawn up by the United Nations.

To this day it has been ignored and has resulted in bringing more than one million Palestinians living under direct Israeli military rule. Meanwhile Palestinians have to negotiate dozens of Israeli checkpoints on pothole-filled roads. And Israeli troops and fanatical right-wing settlers keep up a reign of terror

Under conditions like these, it was only a matter of time before Palestinians rebelled.

It took a while, but in 1987 the mass Palestinian uprising named the Incited challenged the Israelis. The cost of suppressing the uprising with force, might and beatings, as then-Israeli Defense Minister Yitzhak Rabin put it continued to mount. But for seventy odd years the Israeli military have continued to rule the territories with an iron fist.

Despite the Oslo Peace Accords finally being signed by Israel and the Palestine Liberation Organization the occupation continues and the alternative government the Israelis helped establish in Palestine, Hamas the revolutionary wing, is now their bitter enemy.

Outsiders do not understand the historical background laid down in ancient times, that beats inside the zealots' hearts with the same religious fervor today.

Once the British mandate was established over Palestine, Rabbi Kook, the elder was appointed by London to serve as Palestine's Ashkenazic Chief Rabbi, a post he held until his death in nineteen thirty five. He immediately revived Jewish mysticism, the teaching of the Kabbala, and the prophesies relating to the Third Temple. The escalation that followed, led to the massacre of the Temple Mount, where Palestinian Arabs were murdered whilst at prayer.

Several days before the events of the massacre began, the Temple Trustees group announced to the media they intended holding the Throne Festival, which would involve placing the foundation stone for the Third Temple at The Temple Mount. This happens to be the site of the Mosque which the Arabs call Al Aqsar.

Calling upon all Jews to participate in this march in order to end the Arab-Islamic occupation of the temple area, and renew their profound ties to the sacred area, 200,000 zealots turned up to lay the foundation stone of the so-called Third Temple in order to fulfill the prophecies.

On Monday, October 8th, 1990 at 10am, Israeli occupation forces began placing military barriers along various roads leading to Jerusalem in order to prevent Palestinians from getting to the city. They also closed the doors of the mosque itself and forbade Jerusalem residents to go in. However, thousands had already gathered inside the mosque before this time in response to calls from the imam of the mosque and the Islamic movement to protect the mosque and to prevent the Temple Trustees from storming it.

When the Muslim worshippers began resisting the Israeli group to prevent them from placing the foundation stone for their so-called temple, Israeli occupation forces began carrying out the massacre, using all the weapons such as poison gas bombs, automatic weapons, military helicopters, etc. The soldiers and Jewish settlers fired live ammunition in the form of a continuous spray of machine-gun fire.

The result was that thousands of Palestinian worshippers of various ages found themselves in a mass death trap. Twenty-three Palestinians were killed, and eight hundred and fifty others were wounded to varying degrees. The Israeli soldiers began firing at ten thirty am and stopped thirty five minutes later.

There was opposition to the radical party's foreign-sponsored policy of ensuring the Occupied Territories would remain part of Ersatz Israel forever. During the nineteen eighties, some Labor Party officials, most notably Shimon Peres, proposed an alternative Israeli strategy of Middle East peace. They felt giving up the Occupied Territories was a small price to pay for such peace and it would indeed, clear the way for the economic development of the entire region.

It is hard to believe, that the incumbent Israeli government will continue to provoke a conventional war, in the face of high level military and intelligence officers in Israel who do not believe Israel can win a protracted war and should sue for peace. As long as the incumbents continue to receive the blessing of high level factions in Britain and the United States, in their shared desire for an opportunity to extend their sphere of influence in the Persian Gulf, and America, peace will never come to this beleaguered area dealing with its unwarranted legacy.

How Abraham must grieve when he looks down upon his descendants of the twelve tribes of Israel and sees such an abomination, amongst the tribes. One cannot believe this was his vision when he begat his sons, Isaac and Ishmael.

Chapter 33 – Palestine 2006

Thauriya stood in the line on the outside of the chain link fence surrounding the perimeter of the prison camp, her two tired children by her side. It had been a long journey on the noisy crowded Red Cross bus. They had risen at 3 am and traveled for seven hours. The children had slept on the bus but she was too agitated to let herself rest. The food she had brought with them would have to last until they reached home and this time there was enough for Salah her husband, because he was coming home today.

"Be patient." She urged them. "Abbun (father) will be with us soon."

As happy as the children were that he would be with them after six long months, they were hot, tired and grumpy.

"But Ummu (mother) we cannot see them." Fatima her daughter complained.

"He will come." Thauriya assured them, sending a small prayer to Allah that it would be so.

Every month they had made the trip, for a visit that lasted only forty five minutes and that was through the chain link fence. But not today. Not anymore. From today, she would have Salah back, to help her and protect them.

"Will he really come home with us Ummu?" Tarik her son asked. He wanted to believe but recalled previous visits. "The soldiers will not let us touch him through the fence when we have traveled so far to see him. They shout at us and say we will be punished if we do not obey." Sometimes they dragged them away from the fence before the time was up. Despite his attempts at bravery the soldiers frightened him and Thauriya was concerned as he was changing. Becoming sullen and answering her back, like so many of the other children in their town whose fathers had been taken from them.

"I know but now they must let him come back to us." Despite her own misgivings she desperately tried to reassure her children.

It had been so lonely and frightening without Salah and Thauriya desperately needed him. Each trip through the town to collect food and the little money from the welfare centers was dangerous and she did not like taking the children with her but she had no option. There was no-one she could leave them with.

Her family had been killed in one of the sieges. They had been in their car and a missile had blown them all up. Not long afterwards the Israeli soldiers had arrested her husband when he had been walking through the town trying to find work to feed them. All he had done was to try and protect the small children in the area when the soldiers came and started shooting, by throwing stones at them. He had no weapon; no-one had a weapon. Where were ordinary Palestinians going to get weapons? What danger were they to the Israeli soldiers who had guns.

Her body was tired, her mind was fogged with fear and her soul was weary.

Salah rose early, excited that he would be leaving this terrible place and looked around at his fellow prisoners. Thin, exhausted, bewildered at the inhumane treatment they were receiving, they lay like limp rag dolls twenty to a small tent. The smell of rank body odor hung in the air because of the close confined quarters and lack of proper cleaning facilities. He raised himself off the ground where they slept and walked outside to look at the hundreds of tents housing other unfortunates, in an arid dusty area. A large chain link fence surrounded the area and a couple of watchtowers hovered over them like hovering vultures waiting to feast on the bodies of the dead. Sentries with Uzis looked down upon the living dead as they shuffled around the enclosed area, or stood numbly too exhausted to protest. Oh the new ones did for a while before they too became numb.

The camp arose to say their prayers and Salah blessed Allah for his freedom today. "Good luck Salah," his friends congratulated him. Everyone was a friend in this terrible place.

"We'll be joining you soon."

"You lucky dog."

"Say hello to my wife and family. Keep an eye on them for me."

"I will, I will, thank you, goodbye. Allah be with you all." Long before he was due he lined up in front of the office where the bored uniform clad officials would set him free.

His paper clutched in his trembling hand, he was still not the first in line and as the hours passed he shuffled on the spot to keep his agitation in check. Turning he looked amongst the crowds of women and children waiting patiently at the chain link fence, clutching it desperately while they sought their mate. Forty five minutes is all they would be allowed.

As he was being released today Salah would never have to line up at the fence to touch fingers through the wire with Thauriya again. She looked so tired when she came that his heart turned over. Slowly the line inched forward once the official turned up and sat down. The sun came up and flayed their bodies as there was no shelter. As Salah waited with hope and fear in his heart, together with other fellow detainees who were being released with him, the tension mounted.

Thauriya stood silently outside the fence, her heart fluttering in her chest like a captured bird.

His tormentors took their time calling his name and deliberately reading the paper whilst he waited for his release from purgatory. Allah would surely spare him now as he had done nothing to deserve his imprisonment. At last Salah's turn arrived. He handed over the paper he had been given that morning and the bored official slowly cast his eyes over it. Salah's agitation grew as time went by. What was wrong? Surely he just needed to sign. The official sighed and picking up the paper looked at it quizzically.

"See, my name, it means I am free today. I can go home." Salah eagerly pointed to his name on the paper.

The official looked at him coldly and continued to peruse the paper slowly, delighting in tormenting his hapless prisoner. Salah clasped his hands tightly together, as an air of tension crept over the line.

The official's lips moved slowly as though he did not understand the paper before him. A look of puzzlement appeared on the face of his captor, as Salah haltingly explained his time was up and he was due for release. Interrupting Salah the official impatiently waved him back.

"Sir?" he whispered and dared to point his finger at the paper. "There is my name."

The official turned the paper over, waved it in the air and spat out. "You've got another six months."

Devastated Salah looked at him. "Some mistake sir, I am free today."

"You've got another six months. Step aside." And the official grinned malevolently waving him on. He held the power of life and death over this man and others like him.

Stunned Salah could hardly stand upright. His entire body sagged with defeat. Tears started in his eyes and he rubbed at them with his hand. Wanting to protest, he saw the cold merciless look on his tormentor's face and turned aside crushed.

"Move aside, I said." The harsh voice pounded in his ears and a soldier moved forward to nudge him with his Uzi.

"Allah, please Allah." Salah silently pleaded. "Where are you Allah? Please make them let me go."

But Allah remained distant and silent. He was not at home today.

Heart breaking, he moved to the line for his monthly visit and waited patiently. There was no fight left in him anymore. What was his crime to be held in this terrible place?

Throwing stones at the soldiers as they fired their bullets into crowds with little children, whose tiny bodies were sometimes thrown aside by the force of the bullets striking them? Trying to protect the helpless children, who would freeze in terror, becoming easy targets and were gunned down mercilessly. They had tired of hearing families wail in grief and wondering when it would be their turn.

They had to drive the heartless ones off, save their children, cover them with their bodies, even if it meant risking their own lives. Still the children and people died. Every day. Still the tanks came and smashed into their homes, so people lived in the remaining overcrowded dwellings still standing, or slept in the open.

His turn finally came and he raised his eyes to see Thauriya's bewildered face looking at him silently pleading? Her hands clutching the chain link fence were white.

"They are making me stay for another six months," he whispered, as his fingers gripped hers through the fence, maintaining a tenuous hold.

Their dreams shattered Thauriya wailed and was immediately cut off by a threat from the guard. "Stop that noise and no touching, you know no touching." Knowing they would cut the visit short with the slightest sign of provocation, they stood there tears streaming down their faces while their bewildered children watched silently. Releasing fingers through the wire, they numbly tried to understand why Allah had deserted them and their poor besieged country.

Confused the children pressed forward to touch their father's hands. If he could tear down the wire that kept him and his family apart he would. Briefly his fingers tautened on the wire. It was yet one more time of sadness in the months and years of sadness that had been their lot since they were born.

"Move aside your time is up." The soldier moved forward and roughly butted Salah to one side with his rifle stock.

Numbly and silently they moved apart, eyes seeking each other. Salah shuffled back to his friends who stared back at him numbly and with sympathy. They were so helpless in their own country. Why had Allah deserted them?

Thauriya turned back to the bus, her children on either side clutching her hands. Clambering aboard the weariness leeched out of every bone in her body and reflected in every movement. In her despair she sought answers from the heavens. "Why has Allah deserted us? What have we done to deserve this terrible life?"

The Red Cross official stared helplessly at the dejected woman and children as they climbed back on the bus. "Would it ever end for them?"

Something stirred in Salah as he straightened his body and stood upright. His emotions withdrew forever. He was done with Inshallah, (God Willing). He would be patient and wait. When he was released, he would offer himself to Hamas as a martyr.

Chapter 34 – The Hamptons late July 2006

Picking up the phone on her writing desk, Colette rang Francis.

"It's finished. You can have it now."

"That's fantastic. Do you want a run into the city? Lunch? Or do you want me to come out and collect it." The agent was excited. He adored Colette and as she was one of his top selling clients, it was no effort for him to take a run out to the Hamptons. She repaid him in spades.

"I'm really nervous. It's a huge departure for me. I hope my existing readers don't desert me in droves. You come down and stay the weekend which will give us a chance to go over it. I'm pretty stretched." Colette was relieved she did not have to make the run into the city. "We can get a couple of bottles of wines from the vineyards here. They're good wines and I can make us lunch."

"Sounds a fine idea to me." Francis knew that Colette was a great cook and liked to use fresh ingredients wherever possible. Anyway, he liked the run down to the Hamptons. A weekend out of the Big Apple was just what he needed. "I'll run down on Saturday morning."

"See you when you get here." Colette stretched again and stood up. Walking to the window, she stretched and yawned.

Wriggling to get the cricks out of her back she thought about Emile. Maybe she would be able to have that long promised lunch with him now. After all five weeks had passed in a flash, since she had simply locked herself away until her work was done. There had been no further problems with Basil, thank heavens. Maybe he had finally given up and would leave her alone now.

Turning back to the writing desk, she picked up her telephone book. Dialing Emile's number, she asked to be put through to him when his assistant answered.

"Colette, are you okay?" Although he had spoken with her recently, Emile was immediately concerned.

"Everything's better than fine. I've finished my novel so I'm ringing to take you up on that offer of dinner. Time to get out of the four walls."

"Fantastic." His enthusiasm knew no bounds. This was the moment he had been looking forward to for a long time. "Is tonight too soon? Don't want to appear over anxious or anything like that," he laughed as he gently teased her.

"That sounds great to me." Something warm knocked on the door of her heart again and she opened it just a little wider so Emile could steal in.

"I'll make reservations somewhere and pick you up at seven o'clock. How's that?"

"Perfect. I'm going to have a long soak in the bath, get all the creaks and groans out of my body after being hunched over a computer for so long." Just the thought of a nice luxurious foam filled bath with plenty of bath oil and salts seemed delicious.

First she needed to breathe fresh air. Packing up the manuscript she had corrected, she placed it in a safe she had built into her bedroom. Computers could crash and whilst she burned a copy to a CD which went into the safe as well, she always kept her last corrected hard copy. Walking outside, she closed the door behind her and strolled into the Village taking her time.

It was early afternoon so she meandered down to the beach and walked contentedly along the shore, stopping from time to time to pick up a pebble or a shell. The fresh sea air felt wonderful and she breathed in deeply rejuvenating her spirit. Water, the Piscean Symbol, was her métier. Now she could spend all the time near it unlike New York.

Still only 3pm. Walking back to the township, she decided to stop for a coffee and perhaps gaze in the real estate windows. Tomorrow she would begin to look for a home. Maybe ring a couple of agents. Excitement coursed through her body making it tingle. It felt good to be alive again. A new life. She was ready for it.

Sag Harbor was a delightful village, with the boats moored at the yacht club. Strolling quietly down to the marina, she stopped and chatted with a couple of locals who were getting to know her, then wended her way back down the main street to the Java Nation café. Recalling Emile's caring as she strolled into the interior, she sat down and ordered her favorite Vienna coffee, and sat contentedly sitting and sipping whilst she watched the activity on the docks.

Half an hour later feeling a new lease of life flowing through her, she reluctantly stirred, settled her account, then gathered herself together and wended her way between the tables to make her way home. The cottage with its homely feel made her feel welcome and she went straight to the bathroom to run a luxurious bath, filling it with her favorite bath salts and oils. Undressing she stepped into the steaming water and sliding down, she relaxed, let her limbs go limp and felt her whole being fill with the soft peach and chocolate fragrance of Chopard's Wish.

Ten minutes later, she roused herself, and picking up a bar of Air & Sea, a special soap imported from England that Basil had introduced her to, she caressed her body all over with it, before soaking a loofah with the moisturizing soap then washed herself all over. This was a funny little ritual of hers, that Basil used to laugh at. Reluctantly, she released the water, stood up and toweled herself dry on one of the huge bath sheets she loved, deeming prissy little bath towels did not do the job properly.

Wrapping herself in a luxurious toweling bathrobe, she strolled into the bedroom to prepare herself for dinner with Emile. Picking up a bottle of her favorite eau de parfum, again Wish by Chopard, she sprayed herself all over. Walking over to the closet, she chose soft flowing cream drawstring slacks, and then selected a brilliant peacock blue silk chemise and its matching long flowing jacket which completed the outfit.

Aah, Signor Armani, the old master, she loved his well cut, classic elegant designs and admired one of his favorite models Lauren Hutton who wore his designs with such elegance and panache. Another favorite was Max Mara. Their Weekend label would be ideal for her new casual way of life.

Taking her time, she made up her face with the minimum of makeup, and then pulled on the comfortable clothing. Slipping on sandals with a small stack heel in the same color as the silk chemise, she clipped on her Chopard wristwatch and matching bracelet. She rarely wore more jewelry than this. Perhaps earrings. And one of the four or five necklaces she owned when the occasion demanded it. A small soft peacock blue evening bag to slip over her wrist and she was ready.

Pealing of the doorbell. Nervously checking herself in the hall mirror, she nodded approval, and then opened the door to Emile.

"Wow! You look beautiful." Handing over a huge bunch of flowers, he would have loved to draw her close but knew he mustn't force her.

Standing on the doorstep he looked very appealing to Colette. "They're gorgeous. Thank you. Come on in and I'll put them in water." Opening the door wider, she led the way into the kitchen, crossed to a cabinet and took down a Kayser porcelain fossil design vase she had bought in the charming town of Rothenberg on the Romantic Road in Germany. Filling it with water, she reached out for a pair of kitchen scissors and cut away the cellophane.

"The florists wrap them so beautifully, I feel mean discarding their efforts." Removing the flowers, she cut an inch off the stems so the blooms would last longer, opened the sachet that also helped the process, then arranged them. "I'll leave them in the kitchen on the table, as this is where I'll spend a lot more time now the manuscript has been completed."

Emile smiled and taking her hand kissed it. "Scusi, It's the Italian in me. I want to take you to a favorite of mine, Il Cappucino Ristorante on Madison. It's the perfect place for you. Artists and writers love it there and it has a wonderful informal atmosphere. The owner, Jack Tagliasacchi is an accomplished artist in his own right."

"It sounds fun. I didn't know you were Italian, Emile is not an Italian name." Colette gently probed.

"I'm only half Italian. My French mother got into all sorts of trouble when she married a foreigner but it did not take them long to accept my father who was Italian." His eyes twinkled gaily as he told her. "I'm a hopelessly incurable romantic with that mixture."

Colette's eyes danced as they met his. "Sounds very interesting."

Holding hands they walked out the door and climbed into Emile's Alfa Romeo.

"Hmm. Italian car for Italian man.... and Romeo for Romeo?" she teased.

"I sincerely hope so." He grinned wickedly at her. "We'll have to find you a house with a balcony so I can stand below yearning and gazing up at you."

Colette knew she was going to like this man with his gentle sense of humor and the warmth that stole close to her without intruding. He respected her space and this was another plus for him in her eyes.

Finding a car park near the restaurant, their hands found each other's again as they walked to the restaurant. Upon entering they were met by the owner Jack who greeted Emile with a bear hug and smacking kisses on both cheeks.

"Emile my friend, where have you been lately and who is this gorgeous woman you have brought with you." He turned to Colette and as Emile introduced them she stretched out her hand to shake his. Instead, he picked it up and kissed it.

"Come, I will show you to your table. The best one I have reserved for lovers." Jack led the way whilst Colette blushed and Emile possessively took her arm to lead her, grinning wickedly again and loving every moment of it.

"Jack is from Emilia Romagno and his menu is full of goodies from that area. What wine do you like?"

Handing them the menus Jack stood by with a quizzical look on her face.

Sighing happily she put herself in their hands. "I prefer either Soave or a Ligurian Pinot Grigio to go with superb Italian food."

Jack preened at the compliment. "Leave it with me," he replied with a smile. "I have the perfect Pinot Grigio from Santa Margherita," and off he went to collect it.

"Wonderful." Colette sat back in her comfortable chair and looked around her, noting the paintings on the wall. "Are these Jack's paintings?" she gestured to them.

"Sure are. I've got one of his. I'll show you when you come out to my home."

"How interesting. I love the one with the boats on the beach. He's very accomplished. Owns a restaurant and is an artist."

"Wait until you taste the food. Jack vacations in Italy and when he sees a scene that piques his interest, he photographs it, then comes back home to the States and paints it."

"He's got a great personality." Colette looked at Emile coquettishly. "Yet another charmer."

"What can I say? Comes with the genes." Emile grinned as he delivered the double entrende. Picking up the menus they looked through the selection, which was quite dazzling and sounded so delicious their taste buds sat up and begged, demanding to be noticed.

At this moment, Jack returned and opened the bottle, poured the wine for Emile to taste and looked for approval. Emile nodded appreciatively, then he turned to fill Colette's glass and waited for her reaction.

As she sipped the delicious wine, she felt some of the tension of the past leave her body. "Oh Jack, it's perfect. I had this label when I was in Portofino and I'm delighted it's kept the same character."

"The perfect climate in Liguria helps the wines to retain their characteristics year after year," Jack told her. "We do not have the same variances in climates as other countries and the soils remain the same. It's the perfect Italian Riviera sunshine that mellows it so well."

"I suspect it is the charming Italians winemakers that breathe the soul into the wines that helps," Colette acknowledged. "I've been to a few of the wineries in the area and that role was usually reserved for a male member of the family. It was a great experience. The women ran the restaurants that were often part of the establishment. It was magical."

"Next time, may I suggest you also try the Due Torri Pinot Grigio. It's a little fruitier, but extremely delicious," their host suggested.

Colette laughed, basking in the attention. "Mmmm, I do like a light fruity wine. I will certainly go with your suggestion next time."

"It's from the Cesare Fiorile estate in Veneto. Interestingly enough it has very little nose." Jack drilled down a little to see how much Colette knew about wines.

"Aah, you're trying to trap me." Colette waved her finger from side to side. "All I know is that the bouquet of a wine is important because our taste actually comes from our noses."

"So they say, which is why we Italians make sure the food smells delicious as well. We offer the complete experience."

"Hmmmm. I rather suspect a double entrendre there." Smiling, delighted at the warmth of the hostess, she allowed herself to be overwhelmed.

"What is your preference." Jack enquired of her.

"I like the sound of the Chicken in Lemon and Basil." Colette's mouth was watering already.

"That is a very good choice." Jack agreed.

Suddenly Colette realized how hungry she was. That was a good sign.

"Would you care for antipasta and our famous garlic rolls to start with?" Their host suggested.

Looking at Emile for guidance, when he nodded she happily succumbed.

Emile was obviously pleased she had a good appetite. As Jack took his order and discreetly withdrew they looked at each other and smiled.

"What a nice person." Sighing contentedly Colette let go and relaxed in the warm atmosphere of the restaurant while trying not to drown in the deep brown eyes opposite her.

When the food arrived, it was consumed with great delight. The chef Jimbo certainly lived up to his reputation. Good classic Italian. The company was wonderful and after two bottles the wine mellowed her, making her lose her inhibitions. Briefly wondering if this was dangerous but mentally brushed aside any doubts.

Emile seemed to know many of the other guests who greeted him and stopped for a brief chat, trying not to openly appraise her. "The cost of being an architect in a small community," he apologized which Colette waved away.

"Tell me," Emile turned his not inconsiderable charm on her as they were sipping Cointreau with their coffees, "all about yourself."

So Colette happily resigned herself to fate.

"Colette is a French name?" Emile left the question hanging as he raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, mother taught the Classics at College and loved the French writer Colette's works. She was a prolific writer and a radical."

"Aaaah," he murmured. "I know of her, she lived life to the full."

Colette made a moue with her mouth. "Maybe it was prophetic, but it's a hell of a name to live up to as a writer."

In the process of putting down his cup, Emile looked sideways at her and chuckled as he asked, "and are you a radical?"

"I'm working on it," she teased. "My parents had the usual plans for me. After college I was supposed to choose an appropriate career to amuse me for a couple of years until I married the boy from the country club, then immerse myself in the life of the socially challenged of the well heeled suburbs. They were a bit miffed when I took myself off to New York to become a struggling writer."

"Sounds as though you were living up to the name."

"They were happy when I got a job at Bloomingdales, and then at a fashion house, but I didn't give up on my dream."

"And now that you are so successful."

"They've accepted that but can't understand no grandchildren to date. They were a bit shocked when I married a man much older than myself but as he was a banker and belonged to gentlemen's clubs, they got over their disappointment."

"And now you are separated?"

"Well to be honest I haven't told my mother yet. My father passed away not long ago and I don't want to burden her further just now."

When it was time to leave, they wove their way back through the tables Emile ensuring Colette's outfit did not brush against the back of another chair and snag, his consideration winning her heart.

Jack wished them good night and hoped he would see them again in the immediate future. Colette assured him it could not be too soon for her as the food was perfect.

"Good, honest Italian cooking. Can't beat it." A compliment Colette honestly meant which left the owner beaming. "This is as good as anything I have had in Italy." And earned her another kiss on the hand.

As they walked to the car, Colette relaxed a little and let down her guard. She had enjoyed the evening and Emile's company. She would trust herself and see where this led.

When they pulled up at the cottage, Emile got out and opened the car door for Colette. Helping her out he held her hand up to the door.

Turning to him at the door she hesitated. "I know," he whispered, understanding it was early days yet. "I won't rush you." Picking up both her hands he lifted them to his lips and gently kissed each one. "I'll remain at the foot of the balcony Juliet, until you are ready."

Misty eyed, she kissed him on the cheek and turned to walk inside, a little regretfully. Before closing the door she stood in the opening, with Emile on the doorstep and they looked into each other's eyes. Suddenly he smiled knowingly, turned away and waved before climbing into the Alfa and driving away. Both of them basking in the moment.

Colette dreamily shut the door and went through the cottage securing it, before hopping into bed and sleeping dreamlessly all night. The first time in a long while.

Chapter 35 – The Book

The following day, Colette's phone rang.

"Colette, that was one of the best nights of my life." Emile was on the line.

A flock of small finches fluttered in her breast and rose up into her throat, before they flew around her head, making her feel swoony. "Get a grip girl," she told herself. "You're too old for this behavior." But there was something about this man, she couldn't deny it.

"I had a great time Emile."

"When are you going to look for a home?"

"I thought I'd start today. Ring around, see what they have on their books."

"Okay. Choose some and I'll come around with you."

"Emile, I know how busy you are building that mansion in Gardner's Bay. I can't impose on you."

"You won't be imposing," he hastily reassured her. "I want to do this and I can manage everything just fine. I don't want you buying a pup and there are bound to be changes you want to make. I can tell you whether It's possible or not."

"Then it has to be a professional relationship."

"We'll see."

"No, Emile. I insist. It will spoil any personal relationship if it isn't," she warned him.

"Okay, we'll talk terms" he surrendered, but made a mental note to keep the charges affordable. "I'm pretty tied up this week and that will give you time to sort some out, look at a couple if you like and weed out the ones you're not interested in at all."

"That's fantastic." Colette was enthusiastic. "I've got Francis coming down tomorrow morning to go over the manuscript, so it will all fit in well."

"When is Francis going back?" he asked.

"Probably Sunday morning early."

"Can I book you for lunch then?"

"Sure." She pondered for a moment, then lowered the drawbridge and raised the portcullis. "Maybe we could have it here." However she left the alligators remained in the moat for now.

"Sounds great to me, I've heard about your cooking skills as well." Emile's mouth was watering already. "I'll bring wine."

"Then I'll look forward to it. Any likes or dislikes?" Colette enquired.

"Not really, I eat everything."

"Until Sunday then." Colette felt all dreamy and school girlish at the thought. "Get a grip for goodness sake. You're carrying on like Guinevere when she met Lancelot." Deciding her imagination was running away with itself, she managed to bring the grownup Colette to the surface once again.

"Until Sunday then," Emile echoed, letting out the breath he had been anxiously holding. "About 1pm?"

"Uh huh." Colette gently put down the phone. Deciding to make a start immediately, she grabbed her pocketbook and keys, closed up the house and hopping in the convertible drove off to look at properties.

As she had a couple of days up her sleeve, a visit to one real estate office elicited a list of possibles. "I'll simply drive by for now and if I think they are probables I'll contact you to view and bring along a friend." Colette told the eager salesman, who was trying to convince her she needed to dash out the door with him right this minute before they disappeared off the radar. Colette held her ground. "If they sell, then I'll know they weren't right for me."

Rising early on Saturday morning, she showered, dressed and hopped in the car to pick up some scrumptious fare from The Barefoot Contessa. There was too much work to go over with Francis for her to take time out to cook.

Unpacking the supplies in the kitchen she heard the car door slam. Francis had arrived. He had been her agent since the first book and had faith in her talent, even when the first two books were rejected. Always there, he kept encouraging her to write until they had struck gold. Walking outside to meet him, he opened his arms wide for her and when she flung her arms around him he hugged her tight.

"You great big teddy bear."

Francis was a large man, with untidy hair, untidy clothes, horn rimmed glasses and a heart as large as his girth. What a wonderful support and friend he had been throughout the years, particularly in the early days when it would have been so easy for her to lose confidence in her ability. Despite his easy going demeanor, he was a tiger when it came to representing his clients.

Hanging on in tenaciously, pestering the editors of publishing companies, he refused to take no for an answer when he believed his client had a bestseller. Then he negotiated the best possible deal for them. Colette had heard of other authors who had managed to get themselves a one book deal with a publishing company.

"Then I got an agent." One bestselling author had told her. "He got me nine times as much money as I had managed to get for myself. He certainly earned his 15%."

Colette had been delighted when he had introduced her to Francis, knowing how difficult it was for first time authors to get any agent interested in their work. Miracle of miracles, he liked her work and took her on as a client.

They walked inside arms around each other.

"Coffee?" Colette knew he would be parched after the drive down. Just getting out of New York was an achievement in itself.

"Love one." He looked around as she walked him through the kitchen and out on to the patio. "Hey this is nice." He nodded approvingly.

"Isn't it. For a temporary home it has been great."

"What about Basil, has he been annoying you again?"

"No, that's why I rented, so he would not be able to track me down. If I had stayed on when Ellie and Floyd went back to Cambridge, he would have known where I was."

"Good move. Now where's this manuscript?" He rubbed his hands in glee and held them out to her.

"I'll get it for you while I brew the coffee. The shops have good beans down here and I can get Kimbo. Cappucino or Espresso?"

"You shouldn't give me a choice, you know that. I should have black, but I'll have Cappucino seeing you insist."

"Vanilla" Colette shook her head at him.

Francis groaned. "Yes please." She knew how to reach out and grab him by the short and curlies when it came to food and drink.

One of her little gourmet touches with coffee, was to cut off a small piece of a juicy vanilla pod, slice it open and scrape a small piece of pod and put the seeds inside the cup before she filled it with the coffee. The pod itself went in also but was removed before she topped up the cups.

"Don't suppose I can talk you into a Danish either can I? From The Barefoot Contessa no less," she teased. The store had been a smash hit and there were now rumors the owners were going to close it, so Colette was determined to get her fill before they did.

"Just try me wench." Eyes glazing over at the thought of the rich pastries, Francis gave up the battle with his waistline. Not that it got much consideration at any time.

They enjoyed each other's company very much and Francis had been so supportive when she was having problems with Basil.

"You know I miss you," Francis said sadly. "Do you miss New York?" Trying to tempt her back by mentioning the city didn't work either.

"Haven't had much chance." Colette handed him the manuscript which lay on the table and busied herself filling the espresso machine with water. When it was ready, she ground the beans so the coffee would be the freshest it ever could be, filled the basket with the grinds and clipped it in place. Placing the two cups under the double espresso pourer, she waited until they filled half way, then removed them and set about frothing the milk, then topping up the cups. A dusting of cinnamon and they were on their way.

What a blessing Ellie had been in her life. Evolving Colette's interest in food to a new level. Teaching her to remain true to the simplicity of European cooking with its emphasis on seasonal foods and using only the freshest of produce in the making. Prepared with fresh herbs and spices that burst into the mouth and lingered sensuously. Savoring each mouthful to its fullest.

She was looking forward to spring when she would put in her herb garden to enjoy them fresh through summer and when they began to wane along with the weather, she would dry them in the last of the late summer sun, dry them and grind them to use in the bitter winter months. Not for her the prepared ones in packets and glass containers. This way she assured herself of the best and freshest.

Ellie's interest in food had been piqued during her years in the Middle East and had highly influenced her. Fascinated by the attention to detail that went into the preparation of myriads of dishes, each a delight to the eyes and bursting with flavor, she brought the influence into her cuisine.

This included the ritual of making coffee. Choosing the choicest of beans, roasting them to perfection on the stove at least twenty hours before using, to allow the toxic gasses to escape. Followed by grinding and preparing for their valued guests. It took a maestro to produce such brews in a café or restaurant.

No-one left Ellie's table without feeling they had just been through a transcendental experience and as her fame spread, she had been offered her own slot on the television cooking channel.

Colette cheated and used a hot air popcorn popper to roast the beans when she had time, otherwise she relied on the best selling Italian Kimbo bran. Buying only 1kg at a time to source the freshest possible beans, she ground them herself.

The plate of Danish on the kitchen counter was already being attacked by Francis. Smacking his hand, she picked up the plate, put it on a tray with the coffees and carried it out on to the patio. "I love the atmosphere down here and I honestly don't miss New York as much as I thought I would."

Francis acknowledged this with a nod, his mouth already full.

"Try the savory one. It's feta and roasted capsicum. Fantastic flavors. My favorite. Absolutely delicious." Reaching out, Colette chose one for herself, Francis had another, then the two of them sat contently enjoying their snacks and coffee.

"You still eating for two when you've finished writing?" Francis teased her.

"Fraid so," she admitted, taking another savory Danish and leaving the sweet ones for Francis.

"Dunno where you put it." Enviously he glanced up and down her slim figure.

"Making up for what I lose when I'm writing. You know I forget to eat some days."

"Wish I could, but that will never happen," Francis admitted, as his hand reached out and he took one of the sweet pastries, looking very guilty and thoroughly happy.

They idly chattered for another half hour, catching up on gossip. "Right, I'm going to sit out here, catching the last of the summer sun and read the manuscript." Francis announced.

"I'll get lunch ready." Colette knew he enjoyed her cooking and had prepared a meal for the evening. Lunch would be a platter of cold meats and fresh breads, with chutneys and a large salad.

Once Francis had his head into a manuscript there was no stopping him, except for meals, where they discussed what he had read to date. By Sunday morning, he had speed read most of the story.

"Great stuff. Another winner." Rubbing his hands with glee once more, he hugged her at breakfast time, very enthusiastic about this novel. "Maybe we can get a film out of this one as well."

"Fine, but I want to be involved in the script writing." Colette was adamant, not wanting the movie to be too much of a departure to the novel. It could put a completely different spin on the story and she wouldn't like to see their treatment turn hers into something that bore only a vague resemblance to the original. This had happened too many times to authors.

"Shouldn't be a problem with your reputation." Francis was sure he could pull it off.

"Think I can choose the actors for my characters?" It was worth a try.

"Dunno." Francis was more concerned about getting her a share of the gross profits. He didn't intend to let her get screwed as Winston Groom had with Forrest Gump, one of the highest grossing movies of all time, who had negotiated his share of the profits from the net. In a stunning display of Hollywood creative accounting, the studio kept the movie in the red for decades and the author was never paid more than the original $350,000 for the film rights. The director and leading actor had walked away with $40 million each and Colette wondered how they lived with themselves. After all, there would have been no profits if not for the author and his brilliant idea. Francis wasn't about to let that happen to Colette.

"The studio is always looking for a hit and tend to go with the top earners who pull in the crowds. You might not agree with their choice, but it's their money at risk. You will have been paid for the rights and they tend to consider it theirs at that point."

"Some of the top actors salaries are outrageous. There are so many excellent second string actors that outshine some of the superstars and they are not asking to be paid the equivalent of the gross domestic product of a small country."

"Couldn't agree more."

"I can just see John Malkovich as the villain."

"Hey, hang on a minute. I thought your villain in this book was a woman. Unless Malkovich has changed sex overnight and I missed it."

"Oh God, I completely forgot, you're right. Sarandon? Kathy Bates? The villain in the next manuscript is male."

"You've already got an idea for the next novel. Terrific." Francis couldn't have been more pleased. Often he had to wait a couple of years between novels from top selling authors. This would be a plus for him.

"I have. It's about the conflict diamonds that are smuggled out of Africa."

"Wow. I like the sound of that." Francis was really intrigued now. "How did you get on to that?"

"Researching the net and it does make the news now and again. It's been on my mind a lot lately."

"OK, John Malkovich for that one."

"If he's not available, Harvey Keitel, Edward Norton, Kevin Spacey. Maybe Sean Penn." Colette was going over the actors she greatly admired in her mind and ticking them off on her fingers one by one. "Nah, Sean Penn's is in the superstrata now. Pity, like him a lot."

"Let's get this one made into a movie first. You never know, the studio may agree with you and hey, as I said, it's their money."

Colette nodded eagerly, letting herself daydream. Maybe Emile could escort her to the premiere. She must remember not to give to charity all of her evening gowns she had needed when she lived with Basil. Keep one for that night. "Maybe he's not a premiere type of guy, Hey' she pulled herself up, 'don't you think It's a bit early for all of this. You're not really a premiere type of person either. I know," she answered herself, "but try and keep me away from that one."

"Earth to Colette!" Francis was standing there, manuscript in briefcase. "I'm heading back now." He was eager to get to the publishers with his prize.

Chapter 36 – Emile Enters Colette's Life July 2006

After waving Francis goodbye, Colette gathered a basket and climbed into her soft top to drive off to the fruit and vegetable stands, eager to miss the thundering hordes who would descend soon. It felt great to be able to get such fresh produce and she took her time selecting in the warm morning sunshine. Everything she cooked would taste so much nicer. After weeks inside completing the manuscript, it was good to get a little sun on her body.

Completing her purchases, she climbed back into the car and drove into the village to wander the narrow, curvy, streets in Sag Harbor. Many of the residential streets are one way, or have parking only on one side and the entire village had a speed limit of 25mph, which created a wonderful laid back ambience. Here she would pick up fresh crusty Italian Ciabatta and a San Francisco Sourdough Boule, as she was going to serve locally caught Little Neck Clams steamed in a white wine sauce for an entrée, and they could soak up the juices with the breads.

At the specialty meat counter, she chose tender medallions of veal, which she would sauté in fresh butter, lemon and herbs, then serve with thinly sliced eggplant, dipped in light batter, and topped with parmigiana reggiano, which she purchased from the cheese counter of the Italian specialty grocery. To accompany this feast, a simple large Italian Salad, drizzled with lime juice and her favorite first press extra virgin olive oil from the Kalamata region of Greece.

Smiling, she imagined a way they could fill the afternoon, which was highly calorie burning, then she would serve cassata ice-cream filled with pistachio nuts, candied orange and lemon peel, and cherries. This would be followed by a fresh fine estate coffee purchased locally, with some freshly baked Danish pastries. Perhaps there would even be room for liqueurs.

Singing as she moved around the kitchen preparing the food, she couldn't recall feeling so happy for a long time. Hearing a car door slam, she gave a last toss to the salad, checked the wines were cool, not chilled to death, checked herself in the hall mirror and opened the door to Emile

Picking up her hands once again, he kissed them both, then bent forward and kissed her on both cheeks. Backing inside, she pulled him in with her hands in his, pulled his face down and kissed him on the lips.

"God I've waited a long time for this." He caressed her face and found himself drowning in pools of emeralds and diamonds as small teardrops hovered on her long lashes.

"That's so nice." Curling into him, she laid her head on his shoulder while he held her close to him. Pulling back to look at each, he put his arm around her and they wandered into the kitchen. Like Ellie's, the kitchen held a large rustic table and there was no formal dining room. Alfresco was the order of the day. Handing him the bottle and opener, she picked up the two wineglasses from the table and held them up for him to fill with the Soave she had purchased. A soft Italian white wine, with the palest blush, admirably suited to the meal she had prepared with such care.

"That's smells fantastic." Emile took a deep breath and rolled his eyes. Holding their glasses, they clinked them together. "To us."

"To us," she repeated and meant it, letting the past slip away and the flow of the present and future surround them.

"Come." French doors opened onto a patio with bricked in flower boxes filled to overflowing with white, blue and lilac petunias. Yellow, orange and red begonias spilled over large earthenware pots. Leading him to the French Provincial wrought iron outdoor dining table and chairs, she indicated he should sit. The little cottage was surrounded by trees which cast leafy, dappled shade on to the patio.

"This is very nice." Emile cast a look around and relaxed. It was not difficult to feel at home here.

"I like it. I want to find something similar in Amagansett. I love this patio and if I can't find a house with one, I'll build it." Walking back into the kitchen, she picked up the French copper cook pot containing the clams and carried it out to set on the table. "I thought we could eat out here and enjoy the beautiful day."

Emile's inhaled the tantalizing smell and exclaimed. "Just like home."

"I hope the cooking matches up." Colette dished up a portion onto his plate and one for herself.

Emile filled the wineglasses and they lifted them together and wished each other bon appetit.

"God, these are delicious." Emile could hardly wait and let his taste buds savor the burst of flavor, using the crusty Italian bread to mop up the juice. "I can't let you get away." Picking up another piece, he looked at her and raised one eyebrow questioningly.

Catching his drift she laughed and shook her head. "No I don't bake my own. I'm not Ellie."

Slowly meandering through the meal, he enjoyed the main course and sat back patting his stomach. "I'll have to visit only weekends and starve during the week or I'll end up like Ollie Hardy."

"Don't worry. I don't eat like this every day. Feel like a stroll around the garden and down to the Pond to walk it off?"

"Yes, please. Let me help you clear up first."

They took the dishes inside, rinsed them and stacked them in the dishwasher. Taking her hand, he led her out into the sunshine and they strolled through the cottage's garden, stopping to admire the blooms. Quietly getting to know each other, they wandered further, hands linked.

"Do you like to travel Colette?"

"I adore it."

"Where have you traveled?"

"Mainly Europe as I adore all the history, culture and art. I find Europe is a balm to my soul. It's like stepping back in time and there are places that I visit that have a definite sense of déjà vu about them. I am sure I have lived there in previous lifetimes." Colette glanced at Emile for his reaction to her last statement.

When there was no reaction she continued. "When you travel does the architecture send chills up your spine?"

"Most definitely, no matter where I go, I seem to be able to relate to it."

"Have you traveled to many countries?"

"I took in the Middle East as a student, fascinating architecture."

"I'm still trying to get to Turkey."

"I'll take you if you will let me. Istanbul is fascinating and the south coast of Turkey is glorious. As for Capadoccia, it's amazing. Busrah where Caliph Mehmet established the first capital of Turkey is fascinating as well."

"Where else have you been?"

"I've been to Africa."

"That would be fascinating. Have you been on a safari?"

"Yes, and I went to the Okavango Delta in Botswana. It was amazing and makes you so aware of the rich ecological environment of the African continent."

Colette nestled her head into his shoulder. "What's it like being there?"

"You just can't imagine it. The majestic sweep of the country." It brought back vivid memories of his trip and he ran his mental video back over the sights he had seen.

"Tell me about it."

"The Delta is Africa's Everglades. This huge wetland, stretching for miles, surrounded by the Kalahari desert. You can't go in alone or you would get lost. You have to join up with one of the guided tours. God, its an amazing, ever changing, web of crystal-clear channels and lagoons. There are weeping floodplains and palm-studded islands."

Colette watched Emile's animated face as he warmed up to his subject. "Do you know there are over 450 bird and 1000 plant species. We never saw any crocodiles but they are there. We were really lucky to see hippos and elephant; and from a distance herds of buffalo, gazelles and wildebeest."

His face had such a rapt expression, Colette had to tease him. "So as the big hunter did you have to gather your own food."

"Cheeky." He grinned down at her. "We actually stalked game on foot and that was pretty exciting. The guides actually had a large hut for dining, so it was quite civilized. Not that it mattered, we would have eaten anywhere to experience the sunsets. They are surreal. I went with a friend, a French photographer and we took still shots and movies.He sold them to National Geographic. I'll never forget it."

"What did you stay in."

"Nothing luxurious. Reed huts on the edge of one of the watercourses, but we woke up to the sounds of birds, it was so peaceful and tranquil. There were thousands of flamingos everywhere and undertaker birds. They look like crows with large beaks and long legs, about half the height of the flamingos and they would stalk amongst the flamingo colonies, in and out amongst them, picking on the weak and the babies and pecking them to death. It was unreal, the flamingos just let them do it, never protected the young. I've never seen anything like that, but that is part of the great ecological process."

Colette was enraptured listening to him.

"We rode in a mokoro, the traditional dug-out canoes, and tramped on foot. The emphasis is on awareness of the ecological sensitivity of the area. A mixture of five ethnic tribes live in the area. The Bugakwe, Dxeriku, Hambukushu, Wayeyi, and Xanekwe. Primarily they're Bushmen. Hunting, fishing, amazing people. Our guides live in the villages and we visited their homes."

"It's dangerous traveling in Africa now isn't it?" Colette was utterly intrigued.

Emile settled down to expand on one of his favorite subjects. "Not in Botswana and East Africa. Most people don't understand the African sub-continent. The strife that runs rampant in most of the countries is fomented and fuelled by the Western Governments at the behest of global corporations who want to continue to rape and pillage the natural resources. They foment a rebellion and install a puppet, who lines his own pockets, whilst the populace live in utter misery and poverty."

"There is an elite network that runs some of these country, mainly consisting of the military and politicians; and they are funded by conflict diamonds that people don't want to know about."

"It's interesting you should say that. I was handed a pamphlet by a woman outside Cartiers a few weeks ago about that very subject. I've looked it up on the web and I'm horrified. Now I feel quite guilty about the few diamonds I do have." Colette leaned into his shoulder. "I feel so cosseted and spoilt."

He looked down at her fondly. "We look at a shining stone on some woman's finger, or around her neck, but can't begin to conceive of the misery that lies behind it's provenance.

They're smuggled out, the money is laundered and used to buy arms to maintain control through thugs, some of them mere children who have been terrified and brainwashed."

"Let's sit down." Colette led him back to the deck and they sat on the wrought iron chairs. "How could you travel around then?"

"Well, you could travel to certain places and Botswana's no problem. It's the world's largest diamond producer and its government is benign and employs a large majority of the populace, generating two thirds of government income. It's stable and prosperous in comparison to many of its neighbors."

"Thank God the English deemed the country so poor it wasn't worth the effort and expense of guns and soldiers," he continued, "so they didn't foment a rebellion and Botswana gained independence peaceably. Unlike many of the African countries that were invaded and resettled, they retained borders that left their culture and language intact." He paused and asked her, "Am I boring you?"

"No. no. Please go on," she insisted. "I find it fascinating. So rich a fabric to weave a story out of. That's the problem with being a novelist, you hear a story every time someone like you opens their mouth. What's Botswana like?"

"All Botswanans are encouraged to speak their mind and historically the tribal chiefs have invited the villages to take part in the decision making. Freedom of the press exists in Botswana. When the British settled other African countries they divided them up to suit themselves, ignoring tribal lands and cultures, to ensure destabilization and resettlement.

Suddenly, he laughed joyously. "How the Brits must be kicking themselves now for letting it go, because the largest diamond producing company in the world, De Beers, discovered diamonds in Botswana three years after the country became self governing. I bet they regularly kick the British Government up the ass for letting a rich prize like that get out of their clutches. They were forced to enter into an equal share partnership with the Botswanan Government, instead of stealing everything. They're a British company whose senior executives dare not enter America, because they ran afoul of our antitrust laws. There is an outstanding antitrust indictment against them for fixing the prices of industrial diamonds."

"Are the Botswanans capable of governing themselves?" Colette was intrigued. Hopefully she would visit Africa with Emile one day. He would be a fantastic guide.

"Oh yes." Emile's admiration for the Botswanans was evident. "They come from a desert culture and are used to long term planning. They had to hoard through the good times, for the dry season. They invested in their people, rather than robbing the populace to line their own pockets. They built roads, which they maintain unlike other nations, they educate their people, provide medical facilities which are a shining example to their neighbors. The Government maintains their communications infrastructure."

"You mean you can make telephone calls in and out of Botswana and actually speak to someone relatively quickly?"

"Certainly, their telecommunications is excellent. They also ensure rubbish is collected, they educate their populace and have a standard of living higher than in some Middle Eastern and Asian countries."

"My God, you're a wealth of knowledge on the subject." How this genuinely caring man impressed her.

"Well I love the entire continent and object to the raping and pillaging of the natural resources by outsiders. There is so much natural wealth in uranium, gold and other minerals, that it will always attract the ruthless and the greedy."

"It sounds magnificent. Did you go anywhere else?" Casually strolling hand in hand, it felt so safe and warm to be with this man.

"I've been to Sierra Leone, Liberia and Angola," he admitted.

Colette gasped. "Why did you go there?"

"I am with an aid agency and we were needed. The world doesn't understand that when the British carved up Africa into grids, they gave no thought to tribal lands, cultures and feuds and this has caused many of the present rifts." He stopped for a moment, then proceeded to fill her in. "The result was chaos and devastation as they forced enemies to live and work amongst each other. I'm pretty sure it was deliberate so they could destabilize the country and make it easier for companies like de Beers to take over the diamond mines and control them"

"How did you remain safe under those conditions?" Colette sat up straight, intent on learning everything she could from Emile.

"We stayed in United Nations and other compounds like The Wilberforce Barracks where the Nigerian-led peacekeeping force was based. They're called ECOWAS which is The Economic Community of West African States Cease-fire Monitoring Group."

"That must have taken enormous courage." She looked at him with admiration and respect.

He shrugged off the comment. "You do what you have to do and I don't have as much courage as the Doctors Without Borders and Aid Workers who remain on the ground and help the people. I have tremendous respect for them."

"What did you do?"

"We mainly went in to help and report on atrocities and there were many of these."

"Tell me about them," she said quietly.

"You don't want to know Colette," Emile looked off into the distance, lost to her momentarily as his thoughts traveled back to Sierra Leone.

"I do Emile. I have been searching on the net about Blood Diamonds and I want to write about this tragedy. Not an action adventure, but the destruction and misery that is perpetrated and left in the wake of this horrible industry because from all accounts, although the war is over, the torture and abuse of the people isn't."

Emile shifted uncomfortably and she saw the light that had shone from his eyes during the telling of his love for Africa, dim. "You're damn right. It's not a pretty story, are you sure you want to hear it."

"I do because if I want to write about it, I either have to tread the ground to see for myself, or learn first hand from someone else who has."

Emile looked at her with respect. "I think that's fantastic."

"I can't not do anything. I would go myself if I could."

He looked at her horrified. "No, you cannot do that, it is still not safe."

"Then tell me, please," she begged him.

He ran his hands through his hair and she saw his eyes go back to the past, reflecting the horrors he had seen. "I don't know where to start."

"Anywhere and don't stop until you have told me all."

"Behind these wars in Sierra Leone, Angola, Zimbabwe and Zaire, are the rich natural resources of these countries. Timber, oil or diamonds, and the atrocities that are going on are compounded in many cases by the exploitive practices of foreign interests who want to extract these minerals." Emile was well aware of the secret agendas driving the terrible conflicts. "Their secretive payments to these seditious governments are used to foment and fund wars."

"They serve as a distraction while the countries and their fleeing displaced citizens are robbed of their countries' natural resources, which are easily converted into cash. Tribal conflict is deliberately antagonized, so it can be blamed for the internecine conflicts."

"How did they get away with that?"

Emile looked at her searchingly. "Powerful interests are behind this. Who will stand up against them? Who cares about some natives?"

Colette leaned forward and put her hand on his where it lay in his lap. "Tell me about going into Sierra Leone and Angola during the civil wars, please. I need to understand."

He reached up and took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with his hand before answering. "We would help the aid workers move the civilians who were threatened by the rebel army and try to get them out before the rebels arrived, as they were pitiless pricks." He stopped and took a deep breath, struggling to move on.

"Tell me," she encouraged him.

He swallowed hard and began to relive the past. "I was there in 1999 when the Revolutionary United Front marched on Freetown, the capital of Sierra Leone, with support from the special forces of that bastard Charles Taylor who was the President of Liberia. It was all about the diamond rich areas and after they took Kono, the richest diamond area in SL, we knew they would push on to the capital and stage a coup if they could. So we flew in." His eyes were dull and lifeless and his body slumped. My heart went out to him, but I knew he needed to talk about it, get it out and if I touched him it would halt the cathartic process.

"When it happened, we were appalled. They fomented panic and terror with gunfire and machetes, then used civilians as human shields, blending in with them or marching behind them as they drove them forward. The peacekeeping forces couldn't fire at the rebels without fear of killing civilians, as they couldn't tell one from the other. Nor could we give them shelter in the barracks under those conditions and there wasn't the room."

"They swept all before them, going on systematic looting raids demanding money and valuables. If the families had none to give, they were usually killed, as were those who resisted rape or abduction or tried to escape from them."

Colette watch him wrestle with the vivid memories of the horrors of internecine war, which haunted him and probably would forever.

"They took Freetown street by street, dragging entire families out of their homes and murdering them. They hacked off the hands of children and adults, burned people alive in their houses, even throwing children into the flames and preventing their parents from trying to rescue them. They rounded up hundreds of young women, many of them virgins, and took them to the rebel bases and sexually abused them, gang raping them time and again in all sorts of perverse manners."

As he paused for breath, Colette said quietly, "I read about that."

He put his head in his hands and she waited until he was able to continue. He raised his head and looked at her, his eyes full of misery and pain.

"Christ, I've never felt so helpless in my life." Colette could hear the agony in his voice as he relived an experience no-one should ever be exposed to.

"The rebels wouldn't let the medical staff treat these poor mutilated people, many of them kids; and so many died." He shuddered at the memory.

"I don't know how you kept your sanity," she sympathized.

He looked at her and admitted. "It was touch and go some days, but I would look at the medical staff and those of us who were aid workers got strength from their courage and determination."

"When ECOMOG forces counterattacked and the RUF had to retreat," he continued, his thoughts miles away, reliving the horrors he had seen, "they set fire to entire neighborhoods, leaving entire city blocks in ashes and tens of thousands of people homeless. It was a bloody massacre."

Pausing for breath, he looked at her miserably.

"Hold it there for a moment," she said and going over to the refrigerator, took out a jug of homemade lemonade, picked up two glasses and brought them back to the table. Pouring him one, she held it out to him, "Drink this."

Gratefully he gulped down a few mouthfuls. "Had enough?"

"If there's more to tell, I want to know."

Putting down the glass he picked up where he had left off. "They took no prisoners of war and withdrew to the hills with thousands of abductees, most young women, and children whom they bullied and fed drugs to as they trained them to be boy soldiers. Cannon fodder for their revolution," he spat out bitterly. "Despite the rebels' claims of fighting to overthrow the widespread corruption, nepotism and mismanagement, they weren't fooling anyone. It was obvious they were wanted to exercise political power and gain control of the country's abundant diamond, bauxite and titanium mines."

"Why did they attack the civilians? What had they done to them?" Colette strove to understand. "They repeatedly stated the civilians should be punished for supporting the Government. Their victims were chosen at random and created an atmosphere of absolute terror. They were obviously premeditated, planned and well organized." No-one was safe, not even if they had taken refuge in churches or mosques.

"They mutilated men, women and children, amputating hands, arms, legs and other parts of the body with machetes." Emile's face was set and grim as he recorded the hellish scenes he had witnessed.

Colette felt her stomach turn over. "Why did they do that?"

"The victims said the rebels told them it was to stop them voting in elections, or growing food accusing them of feeding Government troops, to stop them working which was aiding the incumbent Government; and to stop them fleeing they would chop off legs or feet." His eyes filled with pain and he stopped for a moment before announcing. "It was Dante's Inferno."

Colette drew in a sharp breath and put her hand on his thigh. "Can you go on?"

"Do you want me to?"

"If you can."

"They abducted many of them and forced them to work as diamond miners as they had taken the, Kono, the diamond mining capital of Sierra Leone; or as domestic laborers, and hundreds of young women were taken to the camps to be used as prostitutes, consistently gang raped time and again. They were savage, merciless bastards."

"Mind you, the government troops also used boy soldiers. The United Nations estimated about a quarter of them were under 18 years of age." He just shook his head despairingly. What was there to say?

"When will it be safe to go there?" Colette asked. "I want to see if conditions really have improved for those people."

"God knows. Not yet. It's left 70,000 dead and 2.6 million displaced. While there is an uneasy semblance of peace, but it is not to be trusted. You wouldn't be safe."

Chapter 37- Colette & Emile

"Enough Emile," Colette held his face between her hands and leaning forward kissed him gently on the mouth. He put his arm around her and they nestled together, thoughts running through their minds, while she ran her fingers through his hair in an attempt to soothe him after his excursion to the past. "Mmmm, that's nice," he murmured gratefully.

Resting quietly she closed her eyes as they left the past behind them for now.

"Do you feel like a Sunday afternoon nap.... or something?" Emile suggested.

"The something sounds wonderful, then perhaps the nap."

Rising, he drew her up out of the chair. Now she took the lead, knowing the closeness in the loving would help restore his soul again. Strolling across the room and pulling him with her by the hand, she led the way to the bedroom. The French doors were open, but the garden was so private they saw no reason to close them and the breeze gently stirred the air as they slowly undressed each other.

Running his fingertips lightly all over her body, they sailed together on waves of pleasure. Gently laying her down on the bed, his lips followed where his fingertips had explored. Small gasps of pleasure from both of them, stirred the vibration of love in the delicately decorated room.

Softly, with consideration, his lips explored her breasts, then he rose to kiss her eyes, nose and mouth, back down her throat, her breasts again, down her flat stomach. Slowly he gently worked his way back to her woman's secrets. Delirious with pleasure as he blew the warm summer winds of the Mediterranean across her and his tongue gently probed and teased, she climaxed, sailing into the cove like small Italian sailboats on a warm evening. Gasping, he reached for her as the tempest picked up tempo, and lifted her in place on top of him. Eagerly she rose and fell, stroking him and watching the rapture on his face. His eyes closed, then opened and fastened on hers.

"What do you like?" he asked.

"Anything you want to do to and with me, but we have a lifetime to explore the possibilities." For the moment, she was in control and rode him slowly, until he could stand no more. Pulling her forward, he found her mouth with his, savoring the taste of each other. Then he rolled her over and mounted her astride, lifting her legs behind his back. Thrusting, pulsing, gasping, he rode her gently and slowly.

"Harder." She demanded gasping.

"In time. We have all afternoon." He was determined to draw this out as long as he could, the symphony he was playing was rich and full. Again, he thrust in and out slowly, building her up again. Every part of her body was being orchestrated like a symphony conductor bringing them to a crescendo. Deep inside her was so sensitive, the ecstasy was so exquisite it was painful.

Colette felt she would float to the ceiling and out through the roof into the cloudless blue sky. She was losing touch with reality and felt him lift her gently again onto her hands and knees, so he could mount her again.

What an amazing lover. Never before had she abandoned herself to a lover so readily and eagerly. She didn't know what sex genes were endemic to the French and Italian but they certainly delivered and she never wanted him to stop.

Emile hoped she would lay with him forever. Pulling out, he gently pulled her to the side of the bed, then turned her over to face him and lifting her entered her slowly and fully, as she desperately tried to pull him in.

After two hours of this lovemaking and resting, he lay her on her back, entered her and stroked her to high excitement, then he drove harder and deeper. "Harder," she groaned, unable to believe she was so demanding.

"My God, I cannot believe this, she is the most exciting woman I have ever had. None have ever kept this pace with me before." Then he let go and drove hard and deep, as though he was trying to return to the womb. Looking down on her face as she climaxed with him, he allowed his sperm to fill her and they lay quietly together in the safe harbor of the cocoon of love, sated and satisfied. Finally, they drifted off to sleep in each other's arms.

At 5.30pm they stirred and gazed in delight at the newness of each other.

"God the first Colette had nothing on you. Our bodies are made for each other," he whispered.

"Mmmm, she agreed. "I can't believe I was so forward with you. I've never been able to express my sexual needs so readily before."

Emile watched as she stretched lazily like a cat, then turned to him and pounced, licking his body like a cat with the cream. His cock stirred again. "Down boy, down." She laughed and moved away from him and jumped up from the bed. "I'm ravenous. Can I tempt you with cassata icecream, liqueurs and estate coffee?"

"You're tempting me to ravish your body again." He growled and lunged for her.

Dancing back out of reach she gaily laughed. "Down Rover, down." Reaching for him she pulled him up and led him into the shower. Turning on the water, and testing the temperature before she stepped in, she felt his body and hardness against her again. Soaping each other, water running over their bodies, they excited each other again and he lifted her up and slid inside her, holding her against the tiled walls. Groaning with pleasure again, she rode him on

the slippery wall until they climaxed quickly and held on to each other. Hands reaching for each other again, they started at the little electric shocks when their satiated genitals were washed.

Exiting the shower and grabbing a cotton bathrobe, she wrapped it around herself. From behind the bathroom door, she grabbed another larger robe and wrapped it around him. "I bought a larger size, just in case."

Laughing, he wrapped his arms around her and they both felt bound by the love and warmth.

Walking into the kitchen, she scooped the cassata ice cream into small porcelain bowls, and after pouring a generous amount of Kahlua over the delicacy, they carried it out to the patio to sit contentedly spooning it into their mouths. Colette made little mewing sounds of contentment which Emile found very endearing. When they were finished, she wandered back inside to make coffees. Emile followed, not wanting to leave her for a moment.

"You bring the Danish pastries. I'll carry the coffees," Colette gently prodded.

If she had asked him to follow her to the ends of the earth he would happily have trotted in her wake. Returning to the deck again, they fell into the comfortable chairs once more, contentedly sipping and nibbling.

"I don't have a sweet tooth, but I think I needed the sugar hit." Colette grinned at him wickedly.

"I'll have to get a cat," she mused, looking around. "The cottage is crying out for one sitting on the hearth. I love Burmese or Havanas. They are such wonderful company, but most of all I love their independence. You don't own them, they own you and they know exactly who is controlling the relationship."

Emile laughed. "What's the saying. "Dogs have masters, cats have slaves."

Colette had just taken another sip of coffee and sputtered as she laughed with him. "How very true."

"What about dogs?" Emile hoped she liked them as he had one at home.

"Well I love them, especially large ones like Great Danes, St. Bernards, Irish Wolfhounds, Bouviers, 'cos I think a dog should be a dog and not an ankle biter, but the problem is they crap all over the place, particularly on neighbor's lawns, who get highly pissed off and you can't blame them. Also, when you travel as much as I like, and have to, on promotional tours, you have to put them in kennels and they hate that. Neighbors will always look after your cat, but they are not so keen on your dog."

"That's true. Well, you'll love Hannibal."

Colette raised her eyebrows queryingly. "You have an elephant?"

"Not quite. He's my Red Setter."

And when she nodded enthusiastically.

"They're brainless, but fearless and great retrievers for duck hunting. He's a lovely dog."

"They are gorgeous, even when they run around in circles looking dopey as hell." Colette agreed. "Just hope he doesn't chase the cat but they usually sort them out. You go duck hunting?" she hadn't missed the nuance.

"Yes, up at Third Fork landing. Dress them when I get home. I'll bring you some."

"That would be nice. I can't see myself sitting on the back steps plucking the feathers out and filling eiderdown covers with them though."

"Whatever happened to those kind of skills in the community?" Emile teased. "I'm sure that if you go down to the craft hall in the village, you can be taught them again."

"My lord and master." Mocking him, she picked up a cushion and threw it at Emile.

They remained outside as dusk fell around them, then reluctantly returned inside to place their cups and plates in the dishwasher, switch it on and wander into the lounge. Rifling through her CD collection, they were delighted to find their musical tastes were similar. Together they chose a Montserrat Caballé CD and slid it into the player.

"I'm thrilled you like her." Colette turned to Emile. "I consider her one of the greatest sopranos of all time. Her breath control is unbelievable and I thought it wonderful how much she admired the late, great Freddy Mercury."

"Oh, are you a Queen fan as well?" Emile believed them to be great artists.  
"In my opinion," Colette responded enthusiastically. "They were classical in their interpretations. Who knows, if Freddy had lived longer and maintained his close friendship with Caballé, they may have written a Pop Opera. They certainly could have."

Another singer they both admired was José Cura, the Argentinian tenor, known for his intense and original interpretations of his characters, notably Verdi's Othello and Camille Saint-Saens' Samson.

"He's so unconventional and innovative in his concert performances. So full of passion." Colette enthused. "And such a highly talented conductor as well. Unfortunately he prefers conducting to singing now."

"I know, but he dusts himself off now and then and returns to the stage. We'll find him giving a performance somewhere in the world and go." Emile promised, as he sorted through her collection and liked what he saw

"Love to. I saw Caballé in Paris once. Such a pure voice." Colette's memories of that night were stirred.

Discovering they both had a love of Blues, New Orleans Jazz, Operas, Symphonies, Broadway Theatre; it appeared they were made for each other.

"Shall we have some liqueurs Emile?" and when he nodded, she pointed to a maplewood sideboard. "Choose what you like, I'll have a Cointreau and you be mein host."

Delighted to be so accepted, he poured two Cointreaus into liqueur glasses and returned to sit on the deep three-seater sofa, patting alongside him. "Come here, temptress."

The lovers nestled happily together, sipping the Cointreau and letting the arias pour over them.

"Got it!" Emile suddenly declared, sitting upright and turning her around to face him.

"What have you got?"

"Who you remind me of."

Colette's interest was piqued. "Who?"

"Do you like classic movies?"

"I certainly do."

"British ones?"

"Oh yes."

"Do you remember Kay Kendall?"

"Nooooo, can't say I do." Colette reached for a face to fit to the name.

"Did you ever see My Fair Lady with Rex Harrison?"

"Yes, who hasn't?"

"His wife was the most beautiful redhead. Kay Kendall."

"No, I still don't know her. What movies roles did she play?"

"In 1955, she appeared in The Constant Husband with Rex Harrison and they were married in 1957. A comedy called Genevieve brought her widespread recognition and she even won a Golden Globe in 1957."

"I'm surprised I haven't seen any of her movies."

"I'll track them down and we'll watch them together. She didn't make many. At the height of her career, she died."

"How tragic." Colette was very moved.

"It was. Harrison learned from Kendall's doctor that she had been diagnosed with myeloid leukemia, but he kept it from her. She believed she was suffering from an iron deficiency. He cared for Kendall until her death two years later, at the age of 33."

"What a sad story. He must have been a fine person."

"Go online tomorrow and look her up." Emile suggested.

"I will. If you promise to stay the night with me," she bargained.

"I'll stay with you forever Juliet." He kissed her eyes. "You're safe with me, I will never allow any harm to come to you. I've waited for a woman like you all my life." And love wove its spell around them and stole their breath away.

In the morning they woke to the wonder of new love and decided they loved the rumpled look of each other. Gently they made love, showered, dressed and breakfasted on the patio.

"What about your house? Any possibles?" Emile prodded.

"Yes, I drove past a few. Came up with one probable in Amagansett, a turn of the century, but it doesn't have the grounds in the rear to do what I want. I don't think my ideas will tie in."

"What were you thinking about?"

"I love the patio here with the brick built up for flower boxes, but the new house will have to have enough area for a very large deck that can step down to a paved area large enough to set in a large chess set."

"That sounds fantastic." Emile was an enthusiastic chess player and liked this idea.

"If I can tie it all in together, it will look great, but it will take some planning. I also want to put a croquet lawn in."

"This will all take a bit of land. You don't want to be by the seaside with views?"

"Not really, because I value my privacy and I don't want people in my front yard. I also want mature trees to shade the paved area and the croquet lawn, as I have visions of G & T's on a summer's afternoon, with ladies in long white dresses and gents in bowler hats and striped jackets."

"Oh very Gatsby." Although Emile poked fun at her, his imagination was running away with itself at the thought. "What about The Ponds? There are some nice areas, with lots of land that could be what you are looking for?"

"That's a good suggestion."

"How about we go and have a look at the one you like this week, and if you see any more during the week, we'll check them out." Emile was anxious to help her out here, he had seen some disasters occur in renovations.

"That would be great." Colette appreciated the offer, as this was her first experience in buying a house and was becoming very excited at the prospect. She had always owned apartments in New York and that was an entirely different matter.

"Got to go darling, drawing up plans for the palatial villa, so beloved of Italians." Emile rose from the table, carrying his plate and cup inside.

"Leave them, I'll stack the dishwasher." Following him inside, she put her hand on his to stop him.

"Take me two seconds," he insisted and rinsed the plates before stacking them in the dishwasher.

"What an extraordinary man you are," she sighed, remembering how Basil had to have a maid to clean up after him, partly for the image it created she felt.

As a new week was beginning, Emile had to reluctantly take his leave and go into the office and tried to tear himself away. "I don't want to leave, but I have to."

"I understand. You'll be back soon."

"Try and keep me away. After all I'm your lord and master and you are here to do my bidding.

"I wouldn't take that too literally if I was you." Gently she swatted at him. Gathering her to him once more, they rejoiced in the scent of each other as they shared a long lingering last kiss.

As she waved him goodbye, Colette decided to release the alligators from the moat and send them back to bayou. It felt right to trust Emile and a wellspring of emotion rose up from the depths and flooded her being once again.

Chapter 38 – Geneva 2005

Basil had another meeting with the unholy alliance in Geneva. It amused him that the world tended to overlook the most obvious misalliances in Geneva, because of their stolid reputations. History has continually proven otherwise.

With their urbane cold manner, the Swiss were happy to overlook anything that might stop the golden shekels pouring into their hands. They were the ultimate rainmakers. Nor were they particularly bothered if the shekels were bloodstained. The international community and Government were impervious to the most outrageous plots hatched under these leaden gray skies.

"Perhaps I should get my dangerous friends to deal to Colette and her fancy man." His nasty little mind was ferreting around where it shouldn't have once more.

Doubt niggled at him. Involving the Cartel in his personal issues could result in a backlash against him. As the newest member of the group he had to prove himself and had been doing very well to date.

How fortunate for him that the previous banker had shuffled off this earthly plane and Basil was a shoe in for the job. All about who you knew.

Also, a hit could rebound on him. Particularly if they used that mad Russian. Shivering at the thought of being in Arkadiy's debt, he decided it was not at all feasible. To be in that ghastly person's debt was unthinkable. The power shift would be total and weaken his position. No, no. Better to keep the status quo. After all, the Cartel needed him to launder their filthy lucre and appear legitimate in the world.

Anyway he was reluctant to forego the pleasure of harming them both personally himself.

After all, he was very powerful now. Nothing could touch him. He glowed with pleasure feeling omnipotent. He was well protected, beyond accountability.

### Lemontov opened a pouch and a stream of glittering diamonds cascaded on to the table, as he looked around the group as they wrapped up the session. "These are our fortunes. De Beers have had a stranglehold on the diamond trade for too long and now it is time for us to take a good portion away from them."

All eyes in the room were glued to the stones. Their pathway to paradise.

"These little beauties provide the cash which purchases the weapons, which become cash again for us to share. Nothing is as portable as these little beauties." Ira caressed the stones like a lover following the lines of his mistress's body.

Gathering them up he poured them back into the suede pouch and closed it carefully, checking to see if there were any he had overlooked. It was wonderful being the preferred supplier of these glittering stones that men would kill for.

Avaricious eyes followed every movement. "I wish." The others thought.

"Ira can I have a word?" Ami turned to Lemontov, who was dismissing the others.

"Problem?" the latter asked, raising one eyebrow for emphasis.

Waiting until the remainder of the group had left the room, Ami looked Ira in the eyes. "I'm concerned at the dissension in the group. You're losing control."

Ira's heart leapt into his throat. "I can handle them, I assure you." As his mind sped back to their very first meeting six years before.

Ami had been completely forthright when they had met in Ira's small dingy office in February of 1998. Having been well briefed and investigating Ira thoroughly himself, he had no illusions about the man he had been asked to approach. Appealing to his better nature in the service of his country was a waste of time. His masters knew what would hook him. "I've been asked to approach you with a proposition to help Israel and you will become a wealthy man."

Ira's heart had glowed warmly at Ami's last words. At last his time on this earth had come.

"We know you are involved in diamond smuggling now. But it's peanuts." Ami dismissed Ira's current efforts. "With our help you can increase your capability beyond measure. Fulfill your wildest dreams." Ami watched Ira's face and saw the greed in his eyes as he gilded the offer. "You'll be able to take real players on board."

Ira remained silent waiting to see where this was going.

"The British and French continue to sell arms to the Palestinians who are growing stronger and bolder." Ami's face turned glacial at the thought of the enemy at the door.

"So what else is new?" Ira studied Ami.

The latter waved away Ira's comment. "This threatens Israel and we need to weaken them." Leaning forward in the chair, he had placed his hands on the table. "This takes funding, more than we can find legally."

"Now you're talking." Ira's ambition glowed with the heat of a thousand suns as he kept his thoughts to himself. At long last, his time had come. "What made you choose me?" Treating the man from Mossad with caution was wise. Don't show your hand too soon.

"We have been watching you since your time in Sierra Leone with the military. We know you made a contact and have been smuggling small amounts of the diamonds out for the last couple of years. Nothing big because you lack the capital."

"Oi Vey." Ira thought, expelling the breath he had been holding and waited.

"To be honest, you have the right sort of background and mentality. You're trafficking in a small way now and know your way around it. We also know you will be tightlipped about this." There was no mistaking his meaning as he cautioned Ira.

"That's true. You seem to know a lot about me," Ira was intrigued, "but what do you want of me."

"We need an astute entrepeneur to run a smuggling operation in illicit diamonds for us. Someone ruthless. You learnt well in your military service. We'll provide you with initial venture capital, then it's up to you."

"First let me give you a little history lesson."

Ira looked up surprised and Ami grinned knowing his man would rise to the bait.

Both of them settled back.

"With the collapse of the USSR in 1981 chaos reigned. In no time at all, like most of Russia's nouveau riche, Jewish businessmen and financiers moved quickly and made money mysteriously. With extensive interests in oil, gas, metals, and the media, questions have been raised about the origin of their wealth and evoked numerous allegations about their ties with the underworld." Ami paused.

Ira shrugged, having only admiration for these new Oligarchs, chiefly known for their banking skills.

"Many of them acquired large chunks of state-owned companies through insider deals." Ami continued, watching Ira closely.

"The world watched the death throes as former arrogant officers of the KGB went unpaid, their dignity assaulted, their previous power lost. Once proud officers, many of whom were reduced to begging on the streets, as Perestroika and Glasnost resulted in Communism imploding. There was simply no money left to maintain the army and intelligence sectors. Vulnerable, they reacted naturally. It was every man for himself."

Ami took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. "Ok with you if I smoke?"

"Sure, go ahead. Your lungs." Ira couldn't quibble, as he loved the odd cigar.

Ami lit the cigarette and continued. "With their networks, and knowing where the bodies were buried, they settled in to their natural métier, got the means and set themselves up as the black marketers of the new Russia. With the state out of the way and the people used to being controlled and bullied, it was a free for all and the Russian Mafia was born. Capitalism running rampant for the privileged few. Nothing new for Russia."

"And what does this mean for me?" Ira had listened attentively as Ami spoke.

"We can put you in touch with one of the Jewish Oligarchs, whose a political apparatchik and will give us the use of his network. You'll form a Cartel, for which he will provide an ex KGB officer as his representative. He wants to move into the armaments business. The weaponry and hardware of the Russian army are rusting away in Ukraine, with little or no containment."

Ira's eyes opened a little wider, his mind remaining on Ami's first comment. "I had heard rumors of better opportunities for Jews in Russia, but given our history, it's a pretty precarious life."

"After Stalin died, the climate changed for Jewish businessman." Ami was lost in contemplation for a moment. "Our Jewish Oligarch established close ties with the inner circle by bankrolling a contender for President." Ami grimaced. "He believed big business should have a hand in policy making, as in the west. Ironic isn't it?" Ami knew many secrets of many people worldwide.

"From communism to capitalism in a few short years eh? Still I would rather climb into bed with a clutch of hyenas than Russian Bolsheviks." Ira had nothing but admiration for a Jew who would take this on.

"Well we have it on good advice, that our man's influence runs deep into the Kremlin. He puts in layers and cutouts which distances him from the activity."

"How does a Jew arise after Stalin and rebuild a fortune in Russia?" Ira looked perplexed.

Ami winked.

Ira did not hesitate. The idea of being linked to a contemporary Jewish Rasputin appealed to him enormously. Nor was it judicious to turn down an offer from the Government or Mossad. Coupled with enormous personal gain for him, access to venture capital and contacts that enabled him to build a network, he would realize his dream of the kind of power he lusted after. The icing on the cake was the elite circles he would be welcomed into. Yes, life was looking very good indeed. "Please continue."

Ami did not even bother to ask Ira if he was interested. He knew the fish was well and truly hooked and landed.

"Currently we sell arms to these avaricious tinpot dictators in Africa and train them as you know. However, we need to distance ourselves from this business, as America is getting a bit hot under the collar."

"Can they stop us?" Ira contemplated the ongoing peace talks which never came to fruition.

"Well, let's put it this way. We like the $53,000,000,000 worth of aid the US sends to Israel every year, to ensure they have a foothold in the Middle East. Better we are not seen to be actively pursuing this."

Ira understood Israel was no longer the pariah it was under Soviet rule and today was a trade partner. Jews could now freely emigrate to Israel from Russia and thousands of Russians visit Israel, which had already given him an idea for mules to carry the diamonds through a trail they could set up with enough funding.

Under Communism in Russia, it had become increasingly apparent that the prohibited commerce and finance activities which governments rely upon to drive the economy of a country, was missing. This eventually contributed to their collapse.

Marx who was a Jew, and originally propounded the fair distribution of wealth, instinctively understood the importance of this infrastructure of trade. However, after the Bolshevik revolution, the country was governed by peasants and the sons of peasants who had no experience and less understanding of his maxim. Gorbachev understood and knew if his country was to survive it had to embrace capitalism and be brought kicking and screaming into the 20th century or die. During the initial euphoria, after years of repression, the populace was completely ignorant of the demands Perestroika and Glasnost would make of them."

Nor did they envisage the ruling elite were in a position to scoop up Russia's industries and become wealthy overnight, whilst the populace continued to starve. History had taught them nothing. However, there was an underlying largely ignored economy of tradesmen and shopkeepers mainly run by Jewry, which became the basis for the new political and economic infrastructure in modern Russia as it rebuilt. Opportunities for Jewish participation in the business elite became a reality, with Jewish magnates playing important roles.

Perhaps their influence would have remained under cover if a Jewish tycoons' circle in Russia had not gained in prominence. Nicknamed Semibankirschina, meaning the rule of seven bankers, they played an important role in the political and economical life of Russia in late 1990's.

"We can channel the supply of arms and training through the Russians. Give their dilapidated army something to do." Leaning forward to engage Ira's full attention, Ami emphasized the point with a broad sweep of his hand. "This will deflect the bad publicity we've been attracting," The Mossad agent had told him.

"So we use Russians instead. Hmmm." Ira's mind was working through the proposal. "That would work. Very clever." As long as it swelled his personal coffers, Ira was very flexible and ambivalent about former enemies. Furthermore he considered it payback for the harsh times his ancestors had experienced in Russia.

"We will also put you in touch with bankers in New York. It's a British bank, as the English want a piece of the action. Distance it from the Americans."

"OK, so let me get this straight." Ira was thoughtful as he followed the trail in his mind.

"I continue sourcing the diamonds from Zimbabwe, Liberia and Sierra Leone, but in far larger quantities. Bring them out through Liberia and Turkey into Antwerp to cut and polish. On to Tel Aviv to mix with legitimate ones." This was very much the case at present. However, Mossad's inclusion and introductions, would raise the game to an entirely different level. "You'll introduce me to a banker who launders the money. It finds its way back to Russia who buy off dictators and supply them with arms and training to keep the country in a permanent state of war. Their cronies and the military get bribes, then they all secrete their monies in Switzerland." Ira would certainly benefit from a legitimate banker to wash the dirty money, and the Russian connection to the weapons, not to mention a go between for the actual sales. It sounded to him like the opportunity of a lifetime.

"That's it in a nutshell. I knew you would get it right first time." Ami was pleased with the man they had chosen. "Our hands remain relatively clean and the trail cannot be traced back to us. We'll give you protection but if you are exposed, don't count on us. You're on your own." Nothing changed in the world of intelligence agencies covert operations worldwide.

Ira was happy to accept the conditions. His future appeared rosy indeed.

"OK, we take our cut and you get a sizeable amount of cash. One word of warning."Ami emphasised seriously. "You can't afford the luxury of a tinpot accountant. Get rid of yours. We will put you in touch with one of the top firms we use for the funding to Hamas. Keep it in the one pair of hands. It's essential the bribes you hand out to the mules, diamond cutters and at borders cannot be traced. I cannot emphasise this strongly enough. The Russian connection will make sure they use the very best for their bribes to the ruling elite and the military in the countries we wish to sell to."

Ira nodded eagerly. "I understand, don't worry. Am I privy to your long term plans?"

"Sure." Ami shrugged nonchalantly, knowing it would not go outside this room. Ira was no fool and wanted in badly. "We continue to destabilise Palestine through funding Hamas."

"So, the rumors are true?"

"Yes. We've been backing Hamas, ensuring they align themselves against Arafat's Fatah and Hezbollah."

"OK with me." Ira shrugged.

"It's a matter of expedience. Divide and conquer. Keep the balance of power shifting so they do not unite together. We need Hamas to continue to be a main player."

Ira understood the need for Government's game plan. Sometimes the lamb had to lie with the wolf. "It created a three pronged attack against our people, with Fatah and Hezbollah."

Ami hurried to reassure Ira.

"It appears like that I know, but we took advantage of their distrust of each other; and their leader's egos and need for power."

Lost in his recollections, he got a faraway look in his eyes. "Hamas is a Palestinian Shi'a Muslim organisation conceived 1987 by a group of damn clerics led by Sheikh Ahmed Yassin after we invaded Lebanon. They had dreams of transforming Lebanon into an Iranian-style Islamic State. Thanks to Yahweh that was abandoned, but they remain a well-structured political organization with members of parliament whose political rhetoric centers on calls for the destruction of the State of Israel." Ami's face was like the proverbial thundercloud. "They argue we have no right to exist, based on the idea that the whole of Palestine is occupied Muslim land, which is bullshit."

"Nevertheless they drove us out of the south after two decades didn't they?" Ira quietly interjected.

Ami looked sideways apparently irked by Ira's comment. Ira made a mental note to tread cautiously. He did not want to earn this man"s hostility.

"Yes, they did," Ami admitted. "They've become an inspiration to Palestinian factions, fighting to liberate our lands that they call occupied territory. We took advantage of them as they needed authority from us to establish and run their hospitals, schools, aid for the poor, orphanages and sundry other good works."

"In the early days Iran supported them with arms and money. Hamas boasted a contingent of some 2000 Iranian Revolutionary guards who were based in Lebanon's Bekaa Valley. We couldn't afford to let that happen. We needed the different Islamic factions at each other's throats, because we stood alone then." Ami was stonefaced, recalling Israel's struggle.

"I know." Ira was anxious to keep on Ami's good side. "We got no help from the western leaders until Hamas started taking western hostages," he grumbled and screwed up his face in disgust.

Chapter 39- Israel's history

"The problem is bloody Syria." Ami sighed. "Because of the Golan Heights, they back Hezbollah, the Lebanese Sunni Muslim organization which was conceived in 1982. They're mightily pissed off we took this land off them and they have hopes of reclaiming it."

Ira didn't have a lot of love for Syrians and dismissed them out of hand. "We beat the pants off them in the six-day war and they are still dissed about it. Most of them are Sunni Muslims, so they're cosying up with Hezbollah because of this." He shook his head. "I can't believe how the different Islamic factions fight amongst themselves like thieves divvying up their spoils from the bazaar."

"Hamas accused Hezbollah of destabilising the country and we ensured it continued." Ami grinned and tapped the side of his nose with his index finger in the universal gesture of cunning.

"Lucky for us Hezbollah got curbed, when many Lebanese bucked at their attempt to impose strict codes of Islamic behavior on towns and villages in the south. Nevertheless, the government in Beirut declared Hezbollah a national resistance movement, when in reality it is a terrorist organisation. Even the US denounced the group as such, but it's still hard going for us."

Ami scowled again. "The problem is they won 11 seats in Parliament. That's why we have to control Hamas, who won 75 seats. Thanks be to Yahweh, they're at each other's throats instead of ours. If they could learn to co-existing peacefully as they did when Beirut was considered the Paris of the East, they could be a threat to us.

"You were clever, I've always admired the move." Ira tapped the table with his fingers.

"It's not difficult to turn them on each other." Ami sneered at his disdain of the Arab leaders. "Each one wants to be the big Sheikh of the largest tent. That's the beauty of feudal systems. They're so easy to play one against the other. A bit of subversive intelligence here and there." He laughed, forgetting the rabid Zionists among them were adherents to the feudal system. "Their trust of each other is nil. Like kids squabbling in a playground over who gets to be the leader of the group."

"You would think they would work towards a common goal as we have. That's our strength."

"They think they do, but it's easy to turn the factions on each other." Ami was dismissive of the Palestinians. "Annihilation of Israel." He shook his head. "They'll never achieve that unless they unite against us."

"How do you know they won't eventually." Ira was a bit dubious.

"Because we'll make sure they don't." Ami promised.

"As you know Ahmed Yassin, the spiritual leader of the Islamist movement in Palestine returned from Cairo in the 70's, setting up orphanages and health clinics, as well as a network of charitable activities. He even opened workshops which created employment for women. Then he established the Islamic University in Gaza."

Ira remembered. Israel had held its collective breath.

"The military were convinced these activities would weaken both the PLO and the leftist organisations in Gaza." Ami continued, putting his cup down on the table. "So Golda Meir saw this as an opportunity to counterbalance the rise of Arafat's Fatah movement. We did nothing to curb the inflow of outside money into the occupied territories."

When the Intifada began in October 1987, it took Yassin by surprise, so he created Hamas and announced, "God is our beginning, the prophet our model, the Koran our constitution. It turned out to be a God given opportunity for us."

"Things ticked along nicely until Yassin got a bit big for his boots. We held him responsible for the abduction and death of two Israeli soldiers, Ilan Saadon and Avi Sasportas, in 1989 and he was sentenced to life imprisonment plus fifteen years."

As his thoughts returned to the present day with its own problems, Ira recalled the sequence of events that followed when the Oslo peace accords were introduced.

One day before the meeting between Palestinian and Israeli negotiators regarding the formal recognition of Israel by the National Palestinian Council, Hamas launched a carefully timed campaign of attacks against civilians. Yassin was still in prison when the Oslo accords were signed in '93 and Hamas rejected them outright, setting out to undermine them. The Israeli government had not been too happy about them either.

At that time, 70% of Palestinians had condemned the attacks on Israeli civilians. From prison, Yassin continued to do everything in his power to undermine the Oslo accords. Israeli Prime Minister Rabin at that time was very reluctant to implement the peace agreement.

Three years after his arrest, Matan Vinai argued that the Palestinian Intifada would get extra fuel if anything untoward happened to the Sheikh.

In December 1994, signs of moderation started to appear in Sheikh Yassin¹s views. He called on both the Palestine National Authority and Hamas, to avoid inter-Palestinian fighting, which had almost broken out after the fierce clashes between the two sides on Friday 18 November 1994. In September 1995, the sheikh supported Hamas' participation in Palestinian elections for the legislative council but finally the movement decided to let only non-official members run. He too called on Hamas to cease the suicide bomb attacks on Israel and also sent blessings to President Arafat.

Later Sheikh Yassin went further down the road of moderation and issued a statement calling for better agreements between the National Authority and Hamas, calling on the latter to stop suicide attacks in all sites. This earned him support from Arafat and Shimon Peres.

In a surprise move, when Netanyahu was elected prime minister (his first term in office) after Rabin had been assassinated, he had Yassin released and exiled him to Jordan. In the background he worked with Bill Clinton to put pressure on Arafat to control Hamas. Then the PM brought Yassin back to Gaza, to be used as a tool to destabilise the situation with sabotage acts against civilians.

It had worked. Arafat was helpless in the face of these events. Another mistake he made was to support Saddam Hussein during the 1991 Gulf war. Not wanting to make an enemy of the US, the Gulf States had decided to cut off their financing to the PLO. The self elected Kings of the Arab Emirates enjoyed the rich lifestyle of the west too much. They're unlikely to cut off their nose to spite their face like Iran. The west imposes sanctions and the populace starve. This keeps the mullahs busy fomenting and suppressing revolutions.

Yassin then went to them cap in hand and raised hundreds of millions from them.

Israel had benefited, as it had taken some of the financial burden off their shoulders. It had also allowed Hamas to effectively pursue their various charitable activities.

Hamas built their strength through various acts of sabotage of the peace process. Support of Hamas had paid off for Israel as it fulfilled the functions for which it was originally created: to prevent the creation of a Palestinian State. It wasn't often Arabs and Israelis saw eye to eye.

"We got right behind him," Ami brought him right back to the present. "But it's been expensive and we need a steady stream of funds to continue backing them."

The Cartel had been performing that function ever since and had been ticking over quite nicely. Everyone was benefiting and Ira had become a very wealthy man indeed.

"In 2006, when the US cut off funding to a Hamas-led Palestinian Government, they turned to the Arab world who provided tens of millions of dollars." Ami stopped for a deep breath and picked up a glass of water that Ira had thoughtfully provided, which was the custom in the blazing heat of the Middle East,

"and all the different sects hate each other, so when one is in power oppressing the others, the hatred simmers beneath the surface." Ira finished for Ami. "Clever, very clever. We're good, we Jewish boys."

Ami laughed outright. "It's easy to spread disinformation amongst them all. Everyone's at it. Problem is the Americans are like bulls in a china shop. They lack the finesse Europeans have."

"The CIA believes it is on a holy mission for America and screws up everywhere they go. Look at their handling of Persia. If they had continued to back the Shah and let him sit at the head of OPEC and increase the oil prices so the true owners got a fair share of the profits, they wouldn't have a bitter enemy there now. Imagine bringing back Khomeini." Ami shook his head wondering what on earth had possessed the Americans. "Installing a raving lunatic when the bloated rich oil companies demanded they do something. Not only did they lose control of their supply of oil from Iran, they threw that country back into the Middle Ages. All the advances made under the Pahlavi's reign were lost."

Ira nodded in agreement. "Well they want to retain their foothold in the Middle East, so now it's our turn to benefit from their mistakes. Those rich oil barons are not going to let go of the trillions of dollars still to be earned from this area. Not until it runs out."

"And we know big business runs the American government don't we?" Ami's irony wasn't lost on Ira, as he swapped over to the ever available coffee on the table and poured himself one.

Ira nodded sagely. "It was a wise move reinforcing Hamas' presence in the so called occupied territories. Gave us an opportunity to repress and intimidate Fatah and Hezbollah."

"We learnt our lessons well from history." Ami leaned forward and refilled his coffee cup, then leaned back in his chair whilst he sipped the brew as his story unfolded.

Basil was the recent replacement in the process. "Maybe he was a mistake." Ira mused, but kept the thought to himself for the moment.

"Well we've done well this time." Lemontov reassured the agent. "Moved a good amount of the gems on. As soon as the banker launders the money you'll receive it."

"Good. We have to keep the Syrians off our backs. Unscrupulous bastards. Pretend to back Fatah but will do anything for money. They don't care if the Palestinians kill each other off, so they can take back the land they believe is rightfully theirs."

"It's a problem because they've cosied up to America as well." Ira frowned. Fancying his influence now reached into the stratosphere, he wasn't about to have this threatened. "As soon as they have a foothold, they'll turn on Israel and try to annihilate her with the Iranians.

"It's expensive funding continual wars. Other countries have found this out to their detriment."

"I know, but we have no option. Now Iran is in the mix, there is the danger of nuclear capability. In the meantime, we'll keep the donkey traders at each other's throats."Ami reassured him. "America will back us, They're terrified of losing their foothold here and Allah's boys getting together against them. Particularly after September 11."

Chapter 40 – Tel Aviv/The Hamptons 2006

Ami decided he must take a closer look at Colette. When Basil had originally joined the group, unbeknownst to her, Colette and her background had come under intense scrutiny. Ira and Ami were discussing the possible ramifications that could affect the Cartel, now that Basil's marriage to Colette had irretrievably broken down.

"We need to take a closer look at Mortimer's wife now they have separated. There is a lot of enmity here." Ira confirmed. "His behavior is becoming erratic. With his mouth, he could have boasted to her in the past year, let something slip."

"Maybe he has been cautious during the marriage, but danger could arise as he seems to be unable to let her go." Ami looked at Ira thoughtfully. "In his need to impress her he may boast about his role in our group."

"I can't see his cousin and the Foreign Office allowing that to happen. Perhaps we should discuss this with him first."

"Let me handle this first before we touch base with them," Ira insisted.

"Very well, but it would be very difficult for us if we had to replace him just yet."

"If we have to, I'll take her out." Ami shrugged. Innocents often suffered. He could not afford to care about them.

"I'm not sure we would get away with that. As a successful author she's got a high profile."

Again Ami shrugged. "Accidents happen."

Ira looked searchingly at the agent who responded. "The roads in America are as dangerous as anywhere else."

As Ira did not want to stack up against Mossad, he wisely decided to distance himself from anything Ami might be prepared to do for the cause. After all, Israeli's lived under the threat of death each day, but were prepared to sacrifice their lives for Ersatz Israel if necessary.

Early the following week, Ami flew into New York, having demanded from Basil any relevant details about Colette and where she might reside now. Thoroughly titillated by any danger that might present itself to his ex-wife, Basil willingly gave up the information.

"I would rather inflict the damage myself," he had ruminated salaciously. "However, should the unforeseen occur while Ami is nosing around her, it can hardly be contributed to me. Perhaps I should distance myself for now and see what eventuates." Allowing himself a small manic giggle, he had indulged in contemplating several scenarios of Colette's death at Ami's hand.

The Mossad agent rented a car and drove down to Sag Harbor, booked into a motel and wandering down to the centre of the village, selected a café and partook of a meal while he took in the lay of the land.

"Not bad." Nodding his head in approval, after locating Colette's rented home, he parked some distance away, then got out of the car and seemingly casually strolled around the area, whilst his keen mind and eye took in details of her domain.

Shaking his head, he looked at the myriad ways a determined invader could access the house. French doors everywhere, opening onto courtyard areas. Ever security conscious, he realized the threat this posed. This house allowed instant access for any invader. He was well aware of the futility of burglar alarms. No neighbor was going to risk their life for someone else's property or life these days. The burglars were too dangerous, wielding knives and guns which they would not hesitate to use if thwarted.

Response times for those alarm systems connected to security companies or the police, left a window of vulnerability where the invader could inflict maximum damage on the owner. This house was definitely asking for trouble.

Over the next couple of days he watched Colette at work in the study, preparing food in the kitchen before taking it out onto the decks surrounding the house to eat. He watched a man she was obviously romantically involved with, arrive and leave. Realizing this would further arouse Basil's jealousy and fury, it could make him unstable and dangerous to the Cartel.

The first night he had prowled around the house noting Colette's habits, including her ensuring the security alarm system was turned on. Having checked the locks securing the doors and finding the security laughable, he knew he could easily enter at will when he chose.

With the latest in sophisticated modern surveillance techniques available to him from Mossad, he tapped into her landline and cell phone, connecting them to a computer which allowed him to monitor her conversations from a distance. All seemed innocent enough. He aimed directional microphones in her direction even when visitors were in the house. Again the conversations proved to be about her novels, or normal everyday conversations with friends.

On the third night, he waited until 2am, assured himself she was not entertaining Emile and then made his move.

Easily picking the lock on the French door from the back patio into the kitchen, he moved quickly to the security system and disabled it with another handy little electronic gadget from Mossad's laboratories. Then through the house like a silent shadow, the result of many years of surveillance training. Through to the study, he easily found unopened drawers and rifled through folders. Unable to find any incriminating papers, he turned to the laptop which was child's play for him to enable, hacking past passwords with no effort. Scanning the novel he found there and opening other folders, he found nothing the Cartel should be concerned about.

True to the nature of homes in the area the house was two storied. Ascending the stairs like a wraith, he located Colette's bedroom and entered. He was like a ghost moving across the floor to stand over her. Years of practice in the deserts surrounding his homeland, and on missions throughout Europe, the UK and USA, he could enter and exit at will, without a soul knowing he had touched their space.

Aware a search would yield nothing incriminating, he studied her as she slept deeply. Because he could, and loved the added danger, he reached out his hand and passed it over her head a bare quarter inch above her head. Grinning, he ran it down beside her hair, then over her body.

Under other circumstances he could be attracted to her. The soft red hair, the glowing green eyes, the svelte figure with curves; she was one sensual woman he decided. He Liked the way she dressed and held herself. An energy exuded from her and her sensuality whilst she slept, reached out and grabbed him between the legs.

Listening to her gentle breathing, he timed his in unison and reached out psychically to draw her essence to him. Oh yes, he had learned many techniques in his time and knew how to please a woman.

Should he rape her? Break her? 'Another place, another time? Who knows?' he cogitated. It would serve no purpose unless she exposed the Cartel and there did not appear any immediate threat of that. 'Should she ever prove a problem, I will certainly take my time with her before her final breath on this earth." His years as an agent honing his craft, had inured him from feelings for any human being.

Colette moved in her sleep, as though aware of a psychic presence, but his physical one did not waken her. Gently Ami drew the sheet back from her body and feasted his eyes on her luscious form, clad in a white linen nightgown that hid nothing from the imagination. Full breasts thrust up at him. His gaze traveled down her flat stomach and soft curved hips, to the red pubic hair showing through. Her scent reached out and enveloped him as he held his ground, fully erect now. Down her long legs, then back up to her long slender neck. He reached out his hands and placed them above her exposed throat, knowing he could kill her with one brief twist.

"It would be a pity if I had to extinguish this life," he thought. "She is rather special. No wonder Mortimer is having trouble releasing this prize."

Colette stirred in her sleep and he slowed his breath as he had been taught, diluting his psychic presence so he would not wake her. Gradually her breathing deepened once again.

'I must leave my presence here somehow. Give her pause. Leave her feeling uneasy about something she cannot put her finger on. I cannot leave her unscathed.' Eyes narrowing, he smiled as he brought himself to arousal and released his sperm on the sheet by her hip. His control was such that he could experience an orgasm in complete silence. A damp sticky patch would remain close to her body where she would not miss it and would wonder what it was.

Blowing her a kiss and leaving her exposed with the sheet drawn back, as silently as he had entered, he left the house, making sure he locked all doors. It would be a mystery and she might dismiss it, but a nagging doubt would remain. He would be long gone. Yet another innocent visitor to the renowned Hamptons.

On the deck downstairs, he left a second calling card, ensuring she would be curious and uneasy, yet not enough to have her call on the authorities.

He was right. When she awoke in the morning, Colette wondered why she was uncovered and when she sat up noticed the stain on the bottom sheet. Frowning, she looked down at it trying to figure out what it could be. She bent close and smelled it but couldn't put her finger on it.

"I don't recall having anything in my hand that could have stained it," she got out of the bed and stood there frowning for a moment, "but I must have." Feeling uneasy, she jumped out of bed, checked closets and ran downstairs to check the alarm system, wondering if Basil had somehow been in the house during the night. The thought made her shudder.

"It's still on," she reassured herself as she keyed in the code to turn it off. "No-one could have been inside the house." Despite the reassurance, she moved through the house checking all the doors and windows. Nothing was amiss. Everything was secure.

Puzzled she made herself a coffee and took it outside on the deck to savor its flavor, unable to shake off a vague feeling she had been violated in some way, but unable to put her finger on it.

"Basil would not be able to enter and roam the house without me knowing," she reasoned, "so he could hardly have desecrated the bed and no one else would. No, I must be wrong." Dismissing the preposterous, she shook her head to convince herself. "God knows what it is, but it cannot possibly be what I think it is."

"I would look foolish if I told Emile or Floyd and Ellie," she decided. "The police will dismiss it out of hand once again."

Idly looking around the deck as she finished her coffee, she noticed a pot plant had been moved from its position from the corner of the stairs leading to the garden and had been placed by the French doors to the living room. Walking over, she looked closely at the lock on the doors to see if there were any marks of an attempted intrusion. Finding nothing, she decided the lawn man must have moved it and forgotten to replace it.

"Why would he do that?" she queried and found no answer.

Dismissing her fears, she parked the uneasiness in a compartment of her mind while she moved on with her life.

Chapter 41 – The Hamptons August 2006

Now Colette could put her energy into finding a home. The Hamptons suited her very well indeed. She was more relaxed here than she had been for years, despite Basil's attempt to upset her.

Of course some of this contentment was due to Emile, she admitted to herself. It was nice to have him in her life and she daydreamed about the night before.

"Come on, you can't sit around mooning like a schoolgirl," she scolded herself. "Out the door and have a look at the houses." Then she shivered with delight. "God, last night was good. Oh, all of yesterday.... and this morning was lovely."

Happily she locked up the house, hopped in the car and headed towards out to look for properties. After spending time with another estate agent, she ended up with a list of five more properties so she drove out to the various locations to look at them.

That evening she rang Emile. "I've narrowed it down to three probables; two in Amagansett, including the one I have already seen, and one in Water Mill."

"We can be neighbors," he teased.

"You might regret that with Basil on my tail. There are lovely homes in Water Mill, but I have to be honest, it is not the one I favor most."

"When do you want to go and see them?"

"Well, I don't want to take you away from your work and...." She hesitated

"Nonsense," he butted in. "I can't wait to get you settled in your own place. Make appointments to view and we will knock them off in the next two days, two at a time."

"Oh, thank you so much. I'm exhausted now and I'm going to soak in a long hot bath and have an early night, if we are going to jump in that fast. I had better ring the estate agents and make sure we can view a couple tomorrow."

"Do that and call me back. I can work from home for the next few days and the practice will be fine. I've got all the necessary toys here to keep in touch."

After a couple of calls to agents, who called their sellers, they were able to view one of the Amagansett homes and the Water Mill one.

"Sounds okay to me. What time is the Water Mill viewing?"

"Is 11am okay? The Amagansett is at 2 pm."

"Perfect, we can have lunch in between. I know a great place in East Hampton, so we can idle an hour or two away and discuss the possibilities of what we have seen in Water Mill before we move on."

"Sounds ideal to me. I do feel guilty though."

"Well, you can cut it out right now. It will give me a chance to keep wooing you."

Colette succumbed happily. "You're the boss. See you in the morning."

Up bright and early, she showered, dressed and leisurely had breakfast on the patio as it was a perfect Hampton's winter day, not a cloud in the sky. Picking up the phone she entered Emile's phone number.

"Good morning."

"Oh my favorite person. What a great day for spending time together."

"It's lovely isn't it? Just one problem."

Emile's heart sank. "What's that?"

"I don't know your home address."

Emile smacked himself on the forehead with his hand. "What an idiot I am. All the phone numbers in the world, except....?" and he gave the address and directions to find it.

It was a nice leisurely trip along the Montauk Highway with the top down. Following Emile's instructions she arrived at his home in Water Mill South, right on eleven am. Pulling into the driveway, she was not surprised to see a contemporary two level building surrounded by trees, as it was just what she had envisioned. He was waiting at the door as she got out of the car.

"It's safe here, no need to lock it."

Colette looked around her. "Emile, this is a lovely setting."

"Wait until you see the rear." Taking her by the hand, he led through a home that was filled with light from the floor to ceiling French doors, which led on to wrap around decks at the side and rear of the house.

The house was built on three levels, stepping down from one another, with double height ceilings making the rooms feel so spacious. Out onto a magnificent wooden deck with views out to sea and open skies.

It literally took Colette's breath away. A huge field stone fireplace dominated the living area. To her delight it opened on both sides into a billiard room. "Not only for atmosphere, although the house is centrally heated. Nothing like cozy nights in front of a fire." He grinned at her. "It's a man's house, no formal drawing rooms."

"Is this where you operate from?" Colette peeked into the large airy office that led off from the billiard room.

"It's where I work alone. I built a separate office suite for myself and the team, down the garden. This way, we're not distracted by the views of the sea when we're working."

Colette sucked in a breath at the to die for sea views. The house had been built to take advantage of them from every room. The large kitchen with granite counter tops and top brand German appliances, was every housewife's dream come true.

Tucked in one corner was an informal eating area with a marble table and sturdy wrought iron chairs, again overlooking the water. Two deep comfortable sofas and large cane armchairs with plump cushions, were for lounging around. Large wrap around French doors led out on to the deck. "I know women who would sell themselves for this kitchen and its views," she teased him.

As Emile only wanted this woman standing before him looking absolutely ravishing, he waved the suggestion away. "I guess those women are in Manhattan apartments instead of out here in the fresh open country." All he while thinking he could eat her, without needing a knife and fork.

"You're right. We're so lucky to be able to live and work out here."

"The office has easy access to the kitchen. I get so involved in the plans that I work for hours, or days, forgetting to eat, then I get ravenous and raid the fridge." He looked at her abashed.

"I do exactly the same thing. Creative work seems to build an appetite. If you take notice of the premise behind Chinese medicine, they say we create too much fire and expend it in the creation process. Typical westerners, we don't know how to take it slowly and as it is comes, which is the principle."

"I can relate to that. Drink gallons of mineral water, tea and coffee when I'm full on."

Having the grace to look guilty, Colette owned up. "Me too. The mineral water's fine, but the others.... I try to cut back on the coffee. I think the process of making it, gives me a welcome break."

"I tend to sneak Danish pastries for the sugar hype." Emile looked suitably abashed.

"Well they're not turning you into a blob, that's for sure." Colette admiringly looked him up and down.

"That's because I swim in the sea a lot. Come, I'll show you the second level." Ascending the stairs to the second level, it led to an informal lounge and two guest bedrooms with their own bathrooms. "I designed the house so that most of the rooms captured the sea views. I love the sea at any time of the year, in all of its moods."

As he led them up the final staircase, they emerged into the largest bedroom suite Colette had ever seen. "My God, it's breathtaking." She almost forgot to breathe as she took in the magnificent views, not only over the sea, but down onto the gardens and the surrounding acreage filled with mature trees. A huge walk in wardrobe with built in shelving for shoes and sweaters, could house an entire family in Harlem.

Attached to this space was an enormous bathroom with a vast expanse of glass. "You can lie in the bath; soak out the aches and pains of the day, gazing out over the sea and the trees with complete impunity and privacy," he told her salaciously. "The glass is one way only."

"Emile, It's magnificent." Colette genuinely loved the house. "I have seen some unbelievably, luxurious and sometimes ornate apartments in New York, but this is absolutely stunning. It's so simple and welcoming, but luxurious. The polished floors and these beautiful Turkish rugs on the floors and the walls bring a touch of magic into the rooms. It must have cost a fortune."

"I love working with wood. It's a magnificent medium, inside and out." He drew her to him and they kissed long and deeply. "I'll let you into a secret. I took six months off work and helped build the house myself on a labor only basis with the builder I am going to introduce you to for your renovations. You have to see his work to believe it. I purchased the materials, but paid him a top rate which allowed him to focus on the quality."

"And it shows. Your doors shine like glass."

"Let's go and find your home." His voice was husky with emotion. "I can't trust myself with you here in my bedroom."

As they walked downstairs Emile suggested. "Let's take my car, yours will be safe here, just put the hood up and lock it." Helping her into the Alfa, they set off for the Water Mill house which was not far from his own.

Drawing up before a contemporary saltbox on a beautifully landscaped acre, they met the estate agent. After introductions had been made and shaking hands, she led them inside.

"The owners have gone out, so you can take your time looking through. It's a beautiful property, so private." The house was on one level with a high pitched roof with skylights letting in the down light. The main area had a large entry hall which led off to the formal dining and lounge areas, through to a large sunny kitchen and informal family area, which in turn led out the rear to landscaped gardens, a heated pool and a hot tub.

"You even have your own putting green." The agent told her.

"Wasted on me I'm afraid, I prefer croquet."

There was a separate wing containing two guest bedrooms, and bathrooms. Upstairs there were three bedrooms and two bathrooms.

"It's in good condition," Emile commented.

"Yes, but it doesn't have the flow I'm looking for; and whilst I could easily put in a croquet lawn where the putting green is, the patio won't fit in. It would not suit the chess board idea." She peered into nooks and crannies. "It's not quite the right feel for me Emile."

"You know what will make you comfortable and happy."

Thanking the agent and promising to come back to her, they leisurely drove back down the Montauk Highway to East Hampton.

Entering the main street, Emile parked the car and led her into a restaurant, where once again he appeared to be well known. "You've got a reputation in these parts," she teased him, putting her head on one side.

"It's being an architect. You get around, poking in and out of people's lives, homes, businesses."

They took their time and two hours flew by. It was time to move on and look at one of the Amagansett homes. The one with possibilities.

Amagansett was a small hamlet in East Hampton, which meant she would not be far from Ellie and Floyd in the summer months. Like all the Hampton villages it was rich in history, still retaining much of the character of the whaling port it had started out in life as. Over the years it had attracted an eclectic mix of people, local fisherman and farmers, some of whom were the direct descendants of 17th century English settlers. Successful writers, painters, journalists and wealthy New Yorkers maintained weekend homes in the hamlet. Colette was sure there were creative people who lived year round as she intended to.

The agent met them at the property which was a vintage turn of the century home. It had been perfectly renovated and consisted of four bedrooms, four bathrooms, on two levels. A classic entry hall with a fireplace which Colette fell in love with, another fireplace in the living room, formal dining room, eat-in kitchen and a large deck. The arched front porch, original banister and classic moldings were exquisite. The second floor main bedroom had a wrap around balcony and the rear deck opened onto a private yard with mature tree landscaping and a sweet outbuilding.

Not far from Farmers Market and antique shops, it was an easy bike ride to the beach.

"You wouldn't have to do anything here, but I see what you mean about the patio not accommodating your ideas." Emile was looking around the rear yard.

"Mmmm." Colette came up to stand alongside him. "It's not quite in the area I want either."

Turning to the estate agent she thanked him for his time.

"Look, if you've got the time, I've got another one not far away I'd like to show you. I know you said you didn't want contemporary, but I wish you would look at this. It's a jewel." He pressed, wanting to make a sale.

'Aren't they all?' Colette thought. "Emile, do you have time?"

"Sure. I'm quite relaxed about time."

Off they went to Barnes Landing. A short bike ride to the ocean, the five bedroom house was designed to provide four separate bedroom suites. "I'm afraid there is no pool, but there is room for one." Jeff, the estate agent was trying hard.

"A pool doesn't worry me one way or another." Colette knew what she wanted to achieve and this would not do. "I want a relaxing and serene environment. One where I can sit reflecting on the deck, surrounded by flowers, green trees and lawns. Almost like stepping back into the last century, where my friends can feel comfortable and I will be at peace. This is a very nice contemporary home, but it is not for me."

"I have one more to show you in Amagansett tomorrow at 2pm. I'm sure it is exactly what you want." He didn't want to lose a sale.

"I really like the look of that one from the outside."

"Wait until you see inside, you'll fall in love with it."

"Till tomorrow then." Colette thanked him, shook his hand and they climbed back into Emile's car.

"What's the one tomorrow?" Emile asked.

"Two. One in the morning in East Hampton at 11am this one at two in the afternoon. It really appeals to me, I'm looking forward to viewing it."

They drove back to Emile's and as they climbed out, he asked. "Would you like a drink?"

"Are you sure I'm not keeping you." She was conscious of imposing on him as he was a very busy man.

"I've told you not to worry, it's all covered." He took her hand and led her to the front door.

Chapter 42 – A Home for Colette

Once they were inside, he led her out to the deck and seated her in a comfortable deck chair.

"Wait here and relax. What's your pleasure?"

"Have you any Bianco Vermouth?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. Martini?"

"No, can I have it with Angostura bitters and topped up with Ginger ale and ice?"

"You certainly may. New one on me."

"It's so refreshing after a hot, exhausting afternoon." As she relaxed and looked out across the pool and on to the ocean, Emile went inside to make the drinks.

"Here you are, hope this is right?"

Colette took a sip. "Perfect."

Emile had a martini, stirred not shaken, and they touched glasses in a toast then settled back to enjoy them.

"You know I have an ulterior motive getting you here?"

"Thought you might have."

"I've got designs on you, you know."

"Have you really? "She looked at him archly.

"Sure have. I've had designs on your gorgeous body all afternoon," he said salaciously.

"Well, I sure know where I stand." By now they were completely comfortable in each other's presence.

"Not if I can help it."

She loved the way his eyes crinkled when he grinned and the laughter lines around his mouth. This was a man who laughed often and enjoyed doing so.

He had his way with her that afternoon and again that evening after they had prepared a meal and eaten on the deck.

"Stay the night with me," he insisted.

She laughed. "You stole my line."

"Hope I steal your heart."

"You're doing a good job of that as well," she admitted coyly. "We will have to drop in to the cottage in the morning so I can change my clothes."

"That madam, can be arranged, we just leave a little earlier."

And so they did, before they headed off to East Hampton to meet the first estate agent again.

This property was a shingled traditional, with cape cod windows set into the high pitched roof, four bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms, two fireplaces, central air, French doors to a privately landscaped pool area with deck and terrace.

"I'm very tempted," Colette admitted. "Nice mature trees, but the landscaping restricts my dream of the chess set and croquet lawn."

The agent tried to convince her that she would love the property without these.

"I certainly like it, but I have one more that I haven't seen yet. I will get back to you in the next few days."

Another leisurely lunch, in Amagansett this time.

"I could get used to this." Emile contentedly sat back in the chair twirling his glass of red wine.

As soon as they drove up to the house in Amagansett North, Colette fell in love with it. The agent breathed a sigh of relief as he knew he had won.

It was a traditional Colonial circa 1887 with green shutters and arched windows downstairs. She loved the large entry hall under the cupola. There were five bedrooms, three of them with double French doors that led out onto the huge deck at the back, which overlooked the obligatory pool.

The master suite was huge with a fireplace, large dressing room and a beautifully designed bathroom, completely in character with the house. The tub was powder coated cast iron with claw feet, there were two pedestal basins. Downstairs was a living room, dining room, a parlor which she adored, two fireplaces, a powder room for guests and the upstairs deck had been extended over the wonderfully sunny kitchen, with its huge family/living area. All with air/central heating.

With minimum effort, the large wooden deck would accommodate terracotta pots planted with flowers, there was even room for her planned water feature and the chess set could be placed perfectly to the side.

At the back of the converted barn which was now the garage, was the perfect spot for her croquet lawn. The property ran down to The Pond area, rather than looking out to sea. Azalea and rhododendron bushes gave her the cover for the front porch and rear patio, and afforded privacy for the downstairs rooms.

All of this sat on an acre of land with mature trees, which would wear their gowns of red, gold and orange/brown in autumn, and provide a magic carpet for the yard. She would have to engage a gardener to keep them in order. During the cold winter, they would rise from the snow and stand like sentinels, stark against the landscape, with the frozen pond in the background. Wintertime would be a magical time here, rather than the dirty slush of New York.

"This is it." Turning to Emile, her eyes were sparkling. "There is plenty of room to add a library/den for me to write in."

"Right." Emile led the estate agent into the kitchen and immediately went into details about former renovations, what builder had carried out the work, and asked for the plans of the house. He looked at the building for any signs of trouble, but could not see any visible problems. The house could be turned into everything she wanted. He would design her the perfect addition. Even more importantly, the price was right and everything was open to negotiation.

Colette's face was shining as she turned to him.

"I feel as though I have come home."

They sat down with the agent and made an offer, then Colette went back to Emile's and waited in excited anticipation. A counter offer came back to her, which she would have paid but Emile insisted she make another counter offer which was accepted. Signed on the dotted line and the house was hers. It would be vacated in one month's time.

"Do you want the additions carried out before you move in?" Emile asked, although he already knew the answer.

"No, I want to move in as soon as I can."

"Are you sure you can live with all the building and inconvenience?"

"Absolutely." She hugged herself and was glowing with happiness, so Emile felt obligated to sweep her off her feet, carry her into the bedroom and make love to her to celebrate.

"I'm so happy," she breathed softly as she snuggled into him. How she loved the smell of him. So Hamptons. Fresh and clean, no overdone expensive designer colognes.

"So am I." He drew her to him.
Chapter 43 – Ira's History

Ira's family was rich in the history of Russian Jews, originating from rabbinical descent. They had rose to become influential bankers in Russia during the time of Aleksandr II, until the Bolshevik revolution.

Russian/Jewish history is as complex as any other in which Jewry lived. Earliest ancient Russian history shows Jews settled in Armenia and Georgia as early as the 5th or 7th centuries BC, having fled religious persecution in the Byzantine Empire. Earliest ancient Russian literature mentions the Jews as early as the 8th century living under the protection of Prince Vladimir II.

In the 13th century the Mongols swept down from the Steppes of Russia and during their rule, the Jews suffered badly once again. Relief arrived in the form of the Lithuanians, who gained control of Western Russia in the 14th century and were tolerant of Jewry. The immigration during the 16th century laid the foundations for most of the large scale settlement in Poland/Lithuania. Due to power shifts in Russia, during the 17th and 18th century, Poland was overcome and partitioned and the Jews found themselves under Russian rule once again.

No doubt about it, Russia was another country where Jewry had a tough time, unless one was useful to the reigning monarch of the time and prospered.

In 1817, Czar Aleksandr I, repealed the Blood Libel on Jewry and brought some relief to their suffering. His successor, Nicholas I attempted to assimilate them into Russian society with the classification of useful and non-useful. Under his rule, among the useful ranked the wealthy merchants, craftsmen, and agriculturalists.

The non useful were conscripted, and often kidnapped into the army and trained in crafts or agriculture. His son Aleksandr II adopted a milder policy, attempting to assimilate them into Russian society and this was the period of the largest growth of the Jewish settlements, particularly St Petersburg and Moscow.

Aleksandr II brought great reforms in the Russian regime, including the emancipation of the peasants. He abolished the severest of his father's decrees against Jewry and applied a different interpretation to the classification system. Assigning various rights, the foremost was the right of residence throughout Russia to groups of useful Jews. Wealthy merchants, university graduates, certified craftsmen and the entire spectrum of medical staff.

Misfortune struck again when Aleksandr II was assassinated by revolutionaries in March 1881. Confusion reigned; the revolutionaries called on the people to rebel and in its attempt to protect itself, the Russian Government elected the Jews as a scapegoat, citing them as responsible for the misfortunes of the country.

Back to square one, until in the 19th century a general draft into the army was introduced, the exemptions being those with a Russian secondary-school education. As entry into officer's ranks was denied Jews, naturally they were reluctant to simply become cannon fodder. This encouraged Jews toward Russian schools, rather than their own, believing the government was finally proceeding towards the emancipation of the Jews. This would ease their entrée into economic, political and cultural life in Russia. The numbers of small shopkeepers, peddlers, and brokers rose steadily.

During all this upheaval, however, a small but influential class of wealthy Jews in the Russian Empire had arisen with established contacts in government, originating in the Polish/Lithuanian era. Contractors engaged in the building of roads and fortresses from 1860, as purveyors to the army, played an important role in the construction of railroads, the development of mines and the textile and foodstuffs. In addition they assisted in the export of timber and grain.

In the hope that their status from second class citizens would be repealed, Russian Jewry participated in the defense of Russia during World War I. In the aftermath of the war, society turned against them yet again, blaming them for its ills.

As in many other countries, the Jewish upper bourgeoisie circle consisted of those who had acquired a higher education and were established in the system among the leading founders of the banking system in Russia, lawyers, doctors, architects, scientists, writers and newspaper editors. Once again there arose a backlash against them.

After the emancipation of the serfs in 1861 the Russian peasants gained very little because of the lack of useful land. This led in turn to the Revolution of 1917, in which restrictions against Jews holding offices were repealed.

With the advent of the Bolshevik revolution, Jewry on the whole supported the movement hoping their lot would change at last. Communism became the political system and as it was the brainchild of a Jew, Marx, they believed it was feasible the persecution of his race and the pogroms would cease.

Jewish youth enthusiastically joined the Red Army and took a part in its organization. Many Jews reached the higher military ranks and played an important role in the formation of the Red Army. They were even able to rise in the army ranks and for a brief time participated in the active political life. It was to be a brief spring in their general life of winter for the less intellectual masses of Jewish peasantry.

Ira's grandfather, learning from history, was skeptical of the Jewish euphoria and deemed it prudent to leave them to it. As a prominent lawyer he knew the winds of change could be swift and fatal. For many years he had faithfully followed the Jewish dictate of portable wealth and invested in diamonds and gold.

Deciding to move his family to France, he re-established himself and carved a comfortable niche for himself in Paris. Alas Jewish misfortune followed them again and when Hitler rose to power in the 1930's he was astute enough to foresee the German Chancellor's ambitions and where they would lead as the man began to rail against Jewry and confiscate property.

Wearied by the fate of the Wandering Jew, once more he packed his tent and moved the family to Israel. His son, Ira's father, had been educated at the Sorbonne, studying journalism and publishing. When they arrived in the beleaguered state, they set up one of the first newspapers in the new country and became involved in defending the Promised Land.

Life was easier for Ira. After completing his compulsory military training, he studied commerce and communication at the new Tel Aviv University. Armed with this knowledge, he was determined to make his own way in the world and had no intentions of taking the long hard road. Relying on his stint with the Golina Brigade, he contacted a friend whom he knew had spent time in Africa training their military.

"I'll put you in touch with one of the consulting firms who deal with this. Best you sign up outside our country. Go to Germany. I know of an ex-Green Beret whose set up shop there. He's providing mercenaries around the world. It's tough, but it pays well. Will set you up for life if you get the right jobs."

"Thanks for that. I'm not worried about the danger." Ira assured him. Then he made arrangements to fly to Berlin and met with the supplier of manual weaponry.

"It's dangerous and dirty work. Can you live with it?" the ex-marine asked him.

"I'm from Israel. I can live with anything. Let's do it."

"Anywhere specific?"

"Yes, Zimbabwe or Sierra Leone."

"Jesus, you sure?"

"Yes." Ira had no intentions of explaining why he wanted these areas. Genocide did not bother him. He lived with it on a day to day basis.

One month later he was in Sierra Leone, with his life on the line. Surprisingly he survived two years, but at the end of that time, he had uncovered all there was to know about illicit diamonds and made the necessary contacts to establish his own little smuggling ring.

Armed with the monies he had earned during his stint in hell on earth, he returning to Tel Aviv and threw himself into his plan whole heartedly. Pleased he had obtained the invaluable training in running a successful business and knowing this is where many would be self employed individuals went horribly wrong, he managed his monies wisely.

Bribes and purchase of the gemstones ate into his small capital and then there was the cutting, polishing and getting them into the marketplace hidden amongst legitimate sales. In the early days, he made the necessary trips himself, but needing to maintain a low profile he was relieved when Ami approached him with the deal of a lifetime, which he knew he could not afford to turn down.

Ira was cut from different cloth and doubting he could build a massive fortune from the legitimate family newspaper business, cast around for illegal means. When posted to Africa to train their military, he discovered he had a taste for intrigue and danger. Making it his business to learn about the illicit diamond trade, he knew that with his nerves of steel, he could live on the cutting edge and thrive on it.

His family's Russian roots came back to haunt him as he investigated the possibilities of his new tradecraft, which he began with a meager stake. He refused to let their bitter legacy define his life.

What is it that drives other races to rabid fury about the Jews? Some claim it is their secularism in which they propound that of the original twelve tribes of Israel, theirs is the only one this omnipotent God is interested in. They are the Chosen People of the deity that many peoples of this modern world have chosen to embrace as the one true God.
Chapter 44 – The Hamptons August 2006

"Do you like Shakespeare?" Emile looked up from the plans he was working on for her addition.

"Love it, why?"

"They put on a magnificent production in a park every year. This year It's in Montauk's Theodore Roosevelt Park and is a modern adaptation of Taming of the Shrew."

"Are you trying to tell me something?" Colette archly enquired.

"Not you. Juliet was no shrew. Want to go?"

"Yes, please."

Montauk is the farthest point of Long Island. The lighthouse still stands sentinel over the Atlantic Ocean where it has done duty since 1776, guiding ships and guarding them against running ashore.

The Shakespearean performances were always set up, with the first forty five minutes being performed in daylight, so the audience could enjoy the spectacle of the stage set in the park. As the evening drew in bright and clear, with the canopy of stars beaming down natural spotlights, to highlight the performance of the six member cast, Colette became lost in the magnificent contemporary adaptation of the bard's powerful play.

"That was superb. I loved the strong performances of Petruchio and Kate. Great battle of the sexes." She chuckled, looking sideways at Emile for his reaction. "The rest of the cast were excellent and carried the play really well, considering it was such a small cast." Joining the crowds departing from the park, there was a wonderful air of camaraderie.

"The productions are always excellent. Well worth it. This is their eighth season. It's been a great success. Do you want supper?" Emile suggestively licked his lips and leered lasciviously.

"Yes, please, you." It didn't take much for Colette to buy into his suggestion.

That decided, they headed home down the highway to Colette's which was not far away and indulged in one of their favorite past times.

In the morning, they leisurely breakfasted on the deck, watching some soft gray clouds meander across the sky.

"Hope It's not going to rain." Colette remarked lazily.

"It won't, the clouds are that lovely silvery gray we get down here. Don't worry." Emile

"Afterwards they strolled through the grounds, planning plantings and generally admiring Colette's domain.

"I'm so lucky." Colette breathed.

"We both are."

She put her head into his shoulder as they continued to stroll down to the ponds and watched the ducks doing those things that ducks do on ponds, before returning to the house to be together. Balmy summer weather, so they entered through the French doors into the informal drawing room, settling down into the comfortable sofa together.

"Tell me more about your visits to Africa please." Colette asked

"You can't imagine the scope of the country if you haven't been there."

Colette watched the passion rise again as it had when he had previously spoken to her of Africa.

"This is a continent so ancient, so rich in history," Emile put an arm around her shoulder, to hold her close. "The pity of it is, no written history exists. Mind you history is always written by the winners so who knows the real truth. Oral history can be an unreliable form of communication as the truth can be bent." Leaning forward and turning towards Colette, he looked at her earnestly.

"These people are being asked to do in a few decades, what has taken the Western world centuries to achieve. Education is the key and thank God some of them are receiving this. However, this creates a new problem as they seek a better life as there is no employment. The wealth that could provide these opportunities is controlled by repressive governments, backed by self-centered external influences, and the world tends to judge all the African nations by this. Nothing can be further from the truth."

"There are so many natural resources that everyone wants to control, just like the Middle East." Colette broke in to his story.

By this time they had reached the house and entering, sat down on the sofa alongside each other.

"That's the pity of it." Leaning back again, Emile stretched his legs out and lost himself in reverie. "Without external interference, Africa would be able to manage their own affairs. Let me give you two contrasting examples."

"Thirty years ago Botswana and Sierra Leone had the same level of per capita income. Both countries received enormous diamond income. The government of Botswana succeeded brilliantly in harnessing these revenues for economic growth. For many years Botswana was not just the fastest growing economy in Africa, it was the fastest growing economy in the world. As a landlocked desert, it is easy to imagine Botswana's fate in the absence of diamonds."

"In Sierra Leone, the diamond revenues fomented violent political contests which destroyed the society, as the opposing factions sought to control the diamond industry. The economy collapsed, and the country is now at the bottom of the Human Development Index."

"Without the absolutely vital economic and political governance of natural revenues, it produced a massive divergence of per capita income, which is now an astonishing ten-to-one in favor of Botswana."

As Colette watched him closely, he put his head in his hands and looked down at the floor before continuing.

"The clandestine use of the money doesn't just stop at warmongering. A large amount of these funds is for the corrupt ruling elite's personal use and the fortunes they stash away in Swiss Bank Accounts."

Emile's gall rose as he considered the consequences for people who had been only hospitable and generous to him. Recalling visits to Rondavels (African huts) where the underprivileged people had never hesitated to make room in their homes, nor share their meagre supplies of food with himself and Phillip, brought a lump to his throat as he recalled the trips he had made with his photographer friend.

Seeking to distract him from bitter memories, she seemed to read his mind. "Tell me about your photographer friend again."

"Phillip?" His eyes lit up once again as he recalled the good times. "He was a special person and had such an eye. His photographs were magic."

His mind flew back to one of their trips when they were traveling in the Cote D'Ivoire.

"Jesus Emile, would you look at that. I have to get a shot of it." Phillip had drawn his attention to a mud mosque in Kawara.

Emile looked on in awe as his friend took the shots which were later sold to National Geographic magazine. "What man is capable of when paying homage to his God. What a sight it was," he told Colette who by now was hanging on his every word.

"There's a huge one in Djenne, it is famous, but this has been built by local Muslims. The appeal is enormous." Phillip had been so enthusiastic about the efforts of a small population, as he had lined up his Nikon D3s DSLR and taken shot after shot.

"The nearest awe-inspiring feat I can recall," Emile continued, "was when I saw the fairy chimneys of Cappadocia in Turkey." Painted across his face was the immense respect he had for the people that had hewn these dwellings out of the rocks. "It was like a moonscape. What a dazzling sight, one never to be forgotten."

"Do you still see your photographer friend?"

"He was killed in the Congo, filming mercenary training camps."

Colette's hand flew to her mouth. "How terrible."

"It was a hell of a loss to the world; he was a brave, good man and a superb photographer. The shots he took of Africa were unbelievable. He risked his life in Yugoslavia and survived that, only to be taken out by white mercenaries in a land where they don't belong."

"Do you have any of his photographs?"

"Yes I do and I'm very fortunate. He gave me copies of many he took in Africa. It's such an amazing continent and its history is so fraught with treachery and deceit,"

Chapter 45 – Africa and its History

Colette put a hand on his to bring him back to the present. The tale of the land he loved and the injustices he saw perpetrated on their inhabitants, continued. "If we paid these countries a fair price for their goods, their standard of living would be higher. Coffee is the perfect example. A cup of coffee costs us $4 to $5 per cup. The small holder growing coffee in Africa and South American is paid a pittance, insufficient to carve out a decent living. The profits are creamed off by middlemen. So the cycle of poverty, disease and misery continues unchecked."

"I saw a documentary recently on this Emile," Colette contributed, "where the situation was so hopeless that the Ethiopian grower in this case, couldn't get a price for his coffee that would feed the family, so he changed the crop to Khat which is a narcotic leaf they chew. He earned more money that way. Perhaps he even managed to forget his own miserable circumstances by chewing the odd leaf or two." Colette was looking thoroughly upset by now. "That's an appalling situation."

Emile sighed. "I know. The first steps we have to take is ensuring transparency of the net taxes, fees, royalties and other payments the multinational extractives pay out to the governments where they have operations, for these shady deals. Only then can we begin to halt future atrocities and human rights abuses, which continue to this day. Stop the mass waves of humans being displaced in Africa. There are organizations working toward this end and I am involved with one of them, but it's a long hard slog."

Colette sat up. "I recently read on the Internet about the sexual atrocities against women. The worst abuses committed by rebel groups who fled to the Congo after taking part in the Rwandan genocide of the 1990s. These monsters brutally gang rape the women, often in front of their families and communities. Often, male relatives are forced at gun point to rape their own daughters, mothers and sisters. It made me sick to my stomach."

"And as long as we in the west stand to gain from the raping of their country, the carnage will continue." Emile shook his head sadly.

"These remorseless animals, shot them after the rape, which would have been preferable to other atrocities. They stabbed some of the women in their genital organs." Colette shivered, imagining the pain and horror these women had been forced to endure. "Others were taken and used as sexual slaves. God knows how the ones that survived, lived to tell their tales of being forced to eat excrement and commit cannibalism, often on their dead relatives. The hospitals report fistula and severe genital injuries. It's absolutely horrific."

Emile tilted her chin up and looked into her eyes. "I know. These acts amount to war crimes and, in most cases, crimes against humanity." Carefully he brushed the tears away that were hanging in her long eyelashes like the diamonds, which were the cause of so much misery in these countries.

"I can't help it," she whispered to him miserably. "I can't even begin to imagine what their lives must be like. I try to compare them to my life and It's impossible. In their eyes, I would have been born under a lucky star, into luxury they cannot even begin to imagine."

"I know how you feel. For myself, I feel I have an obligation to the people of the African nations. For God's sake, they are human beings like us, and we treat them like so much human refuse, to be used as we wish and discarded or worse when they are no longer useful, if they are in their way of our ambitions."

"I'm impressed by the Buddhist philosophy and belief in reincarnation. I know I'm supposed to remain detached," Colette sniffed back sobs that were threatening to overflow, "and view the ongoing carnage as the result of karma, the result of actions we have taken in our lifetimes, but it is all so hard to accept."

Emile was aware that many of the teachings about reincarnation advise detachment from others' suffering. Remain unaffected, as they have karma to repay, but he did not agree.

"I seem to be unable to divorce myself from their plight. I just find it too hard to accept that wealthier nations do not intervene to stop this," Colette turned to him in her distress.

He put his arm around her as he shook his head. "It is a lack of political will. Large contributions to political campaigns from those with vested interests in maintaining the status quo."

Colette turned to look at the man beside her. "You're so passionate about them. Why does it affect you so?"

Emile's thoughts returned to the hospitality he had enjoyed in this great continent of Africa. "Would you like me to tell you about these noble people?"

Colette pushed away the horrible images that had risen in her mind's eye, while Emile related his feelings, realizing how simple it was for her to do so. Those that live with the ongoing madness, do not have the same privileges as the west, who could watch in horror then simply turn off the television and continue with their comfortable lives. How she admired the special investigators, the doctors and nurses, teachers and others that risked their lives in these countries, trying to make a difference. Perhaps it was time she stepped outside her own comfort zone and gave something of herself to try and rights these wrongs. Stand up for her beliefs.

Nodding at him to continue, she settled down again, safe in her own haven. At the back of her mind a niggling thought kept pressing to be heard. So many of the people they were discussing did not even feel safe in the daytime in their homes, let alone at night in their beds.

"The veldts stretch towards the horizon and beyond." Emile's eyes glowed as he remembered when he and his freelance photographer friend Phillip, went into the area and traveled around for two years. Vividly recalling the stunning sunsets and sunrises, set against the backdrop of the African terrain, the animals unique to these areas and his African guides, brought back the latter's pride as they shared their land's glories with them. "The tribes that lived and ruled these lands were brave and noble warriors, grounded to the earth from which their very souls rose and the soil is rich with the blood that has been shed." In his mind's eye, he was there once again and recalled the magnificent scope of the land and its friendly, generous people.

"To our everlasting shame, we enslaved the people of this amazing land because we coveted their riches. Just to walk upon the lands they ruled and conquered with nothing more than spears against the beasts that roam and share their lands, is to feel their noble spirit. Oh God, I'm proselytizing aren't I?" he apologized ruefully.

"I don't see it that way." Colette was quick to reassure him, knowing she would feel the same way had she been in his shoes. "I'm so pleased you have a sense of injustice. Basil could never understand how I could become emotionally involved with the manipulation of other countries." Mentioning his name momentarily brought a scowl to her face.

"They still purchase a bride in the form of cattle, which adds to the father's wealth." Emile came back to the present and smiled at Colette. "Has your Dad got many cows?"

"Sorry. Not a one. And he's passed on."

"Oh darling, I'm sorry. How indiscreet of me."

"You weren't to know. My mother lives alone in Connecticut. We'll go and visit her one day," she hastened to reassure him.

"I'd like to. Have you brothers and sisters?"

"One sister. My God," she changed the subject, throwing her arms around him. "You could write a novel, you're a story teller."

"One in the family is enough. I'll stick to architecture and keep the roof over our heads."

"Would you like another history lesson? Or am I boring you beyond belief and you are too well mannered to tell me."

"No, no. Tell me." Colette tucked her feet beneath her and settled back to lean against him. "This is all background for my next novel."

"Be honest, I can take it." He was so intent on making sure she was not bored, he missed the reference to her next project.

"No, I mean it Emile. I'm transfixed, if you want to know the truth."

"Can't say I've had that effect on too many people. You're great for my ego." He chuckled. "But I'm warning you, once I get started on the immorality the Africans have suffered, I'm hard to stop."

Putting his arm around her once more, he thought about his beloved Africa and those that plundered her and its peoples.

"I'll soak up everything you can tell me. Honestly. I'm deeply interested in everything you have to say." Colette's thoughts went to the manuscript she already had an outline for. "This is helping me as much as researching the web."

"It gives me a perspective of the continent and its peoples. Characters will come to mind and I will be able to breathe life into them, make them real. Otherwise there is a very real danger of it becoming a litany of woes and a history lesson."

"Okay. I'm up for it in the future if you are." Emile was happy he had received her benediction and let go of any further misgivings he had.

Chapter 46 – Ukraine February 2000

Arkadiy had made his bargain with the Devil. He would do whatever it took to be successful. Ruthless and flamboyant like his ancestors, he was a true Cossack. For expediency, they would sell their services to whatever master took their fancy in the past.

Their roots reached deep into Ukraine, so obtaining the stockpiled armaments from the land of his birth, had posed no problem whatsoever. All he had needed to do was reach back into his memory banks for the names of generals with whom he had shared drinks and check which ones were still anchored to the defunct military, then let his natural charm and charisma take over. Most of them were bored stupid, making it a simple matter of picking up his mobile phone to renew old acquaintances.

"Вениамин Брунович Понтекорво.( Veniamin Brunovich Pontekorvo). This is Arkadiy Korshanenko."

" Arkadiy Александра Korshanenko. Мать Бог, как вы, вы драчевы? "Arkadiy Alexandrovitch Korshanenko. Mother of God. How are you, you bastard?). As Arkadiy's given and patronymic names function similar to Russian, they both understood the greeting.

"How's life in the military."

"Pshaw." The general exploded. "Sounds like you are out of it."

"I certainly am, saw the writing on the wall."

"You lucky bastard. We're lucky if we get paid these days. Most times not. We're babysitting Russia's stockpile of old weapons, for God's sake. It's a graveyard."

"One built on the bodies of good military men. I know the situation is dire. It's good out here in the private sector."

"You lucky bastard. Always knew how to land on your feet." Obviously the general was envious. Good That's exactly where Arkadiy wanted him.

"Listen. I can help you." Arkadiy was going to strike while the iron was hot. "Put some good money your way." He let this sink in, and then continued. "Interested?"

Медведь shit в древесинах? (Does a bear shit in the woods?) Of course I'm interested." The general waded in up to his armpits.

"OK. I'll fly down and see you. How does tomorrow sound?" Arkadiy was not about to mess around. He wanted to get the show on the road.

"Best idea I've heard for years. For you, I'll get out the vodka."

"Do that.... and I'll bring some good stuff for you."

"I'll meet you at the airport. Run you out here."

"I'll charter a jet."

"Then you can land at the base airstrip."

With foresight, when the USSR had imploded, Arkadiy had known the post-era would result in chaos. The military was in disarray, soldiers were not being paid, morale was not only at an all time low, and it was virtually non-existent. Communism was out and capitalism was in and he was at the forefront.

With his contacts in General Staff's Main Intelligence Directorate, it would be a snip to get their hands on Russia's obsolete weapons stockpiled in Ukraine. The time was right for him to purchase second hand aircraft, tanks, and weapons of all kinds, which would sit rusting in the open air unless it was disposed of.

Everyone who had previously relied on the government for their daily bread, and who hadn"t under communism, lived with the constant threat of destitution. That suited Arkadiy and his Oligarch, because it meant everyone and everything was available for a price.

As he flew in, the sight was unbelievable. Aircraft, helicopters and tanks were lined up in row upon row.

The General met him at the airstrip with a jeep. Still dressed in full military uniform.

"Hop in, I'll give you a guided tour, then you can tell me what you want of me,"

Hangars housed weapons and ammunition stored to the ceiling. Boxes upon boxes, upon boxes. You name it, they had it.

Out came the vodka.

"Now, what do you want of me Arkadiy."

"I want to buy aircraft, tanks, mines, rocket launchers, grenades, weapons and ammunition."

"Christ. You were always to the point my friend." Veniamin took off his cap and scratched his head. This posed quite a quandary for him. "I don't know if I can....."

"Anyone carrying out inventories?"

Veniamin shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "No. Who's going to do it? No money."

"So, What's the problem?"

"Jeez, if I'm caught." The General was looking decidedly worried. After all it was his head that would roll.

"I'll square it away with the big boys. Don't you worry."

"You have the contacts to do that?"

"Don't you doubt it."

"OK." A handshake sealed the deal, vodka was consumed and money changed hands. Everyone was happy, except the civilian population in Sub-Saharan Africa upon whom purgatory was about to be unleashed.

"We'll provide you with end user certificates (the export documents that are supposed to record the final recipient of an arms shipment). "

High-level Ukrainian officials, smoothed the path and looked the other way. For a price of course.

The goods moved out of the base in quantities that would make you think WWIII had been declared.

Firstly, they purchased four Ilyushin II-76 heavy transport planes for a song. The aircraft was a landmark Soviet-era design, conceived and used to fly strategic military cargos into front-line air bases in the most extreme operational conditions. Perfect for Arkadiy and his Pakhan's, usage. They also bought smaller planes, single and twin-engine Antonovs, for landing on makeshift runways.

For a personal gratuity, the President of Liberia was only too pleased to allow their planes to be registered in his country.

For another fee he would not only purchase the aircraft and arms from the Cartel, he would introduce him to other customers, the first of which was the RUF in Sierra Leone.

To be on the safe side, they registered an air cargo company in Liberia and operated it out of Ostend in Belgium. Ostensibly to deliver aid and UN supplies into the war riven countries in Sub-Saharan Africa, it was a great cover for the illicit side of their operations. Rice and ammunition. A perfect mix.

"It's only business." Arkadiy would state blithely.

They were on their way.

Chapter 47 – The Hamptons

Colette sat up and turned to face Emile. "I use the Net to research backgrounds for my novels. My next one is going to be about blood diamonds. I've been appalled at what I've read about this inhumane practice and you have reinforced my decision with what you have told me."

Emile was startled, unable to believe what he had just heard. "That's fantastic. The more that illicit trade is written about, the better. This is the basest of crimes against humanity, all in the name of greed and power."

Colette looked into his eyes and saw the hurt for the damned and doomed in them.

"I intend to. I've been very lucky and I want to use my talent to build greater awareness of this crime." Colette was adamant she would try to make a difference, no matter how small. "I could use some guidance though."

"I'll help you as much as I can." Emile promised.

"They are so pitiless." Colette could not even begin to imagine what it must be like to struggle to exist amongst the barbarity.

"Divide and conquer is an ancient Roman tool, which they used ruthlessly and arbitrarily when they invaded other countries. Other nations adopted it and have used it for centuries. The British carved up Africa without any thought for tribal lands, cultures and languages, leaving utter chaos in their wake." Emile passionately resented the exploitation of these benighted countries.

"Knowing this would engender old hatreds and result in utter confusion, it would have suited their purpose admirably," Colette suggested.

"Exactly." Emile couldn't agree more. "The pickings were too rich to worry about a few savages."

They both fell silent, recalling the abominations that had occurred in the internecine struggle, as Christian Serbia set about the ethnic cleansing of the Muslims in Kosovo.

"A typical example was the case of the Congo," Emile looked at Colette to see if she was interested and when she nodded he continued, "where growing public protests finally forced out the tyrant Mobutu. His replacement, Kabila, who genuinely tried to help his nation, was demonized and vilified as corrupt and a thug. This was fuelled by sensationalist reports from the media, who assist in demonising leaders who resist Western powers.

He was finally forced to accede by implicit and explicit threats of an endless war against the rebels, which would be provisioned by the Western powers. A divided Congo is now an accepted, institutionalized reality." Emile's face clouded over as he made no effort to contain the disgust he felt.

"The irony is, that significant American companies, even individuals, are protected by the United Nations peacekeeping forces, while they continue stripping some of the most valuable natural resources in the world." Emile's voice was heavy with disappointment. "In their wake, they leave pollution, disease and environmental disasters, while the Congolese people suffer unbelievable misery."

"No wonder I have fallen in love with you. You have a conscience and compassion," Colette murmured. "So many wars in Africa."

"Many fostered by Western interests. It's political," Emile could not keep the bitterness out of his voice. "These wars are perpetrated by particularly ruthless elite local military and political networks, who are armed, funded and trained by western intelligence and military advisors from Israel, USA, Britain, Germany and France and employ mercenaries to train them."

"You would think we would learn from the atrocities and mistakes of the past," Colette interrupted, "but we don't seem to."

"There is too much to be gained." Emile replied sombrely. "So many institutions profit out of an unethical, arrogant industry. Banks have no hesitation in funding the multinationals, which are given the contracts to feed, clothe and intern the refugees, which earns them tax write-offs. It provides employment for western aid workers, rather than local people, as there are no salaries for local medical staff or facilities. They win all rounds at the expense of the people they are plundering. This has to change." Bringing his hand down on his knee, he emphasised his point.

"In Africa, this beautiful land and its people are betrayed time and again. Used as biological and pharmaceutical guinea pigs. Countries and arms merchants benefit from the sale of weapons, as military adventurism is condoned with special forces training in psychological operations."

Colette's head was full of ideas now. This was the direction she needed to go in.

"Aid and trade agencies do their best. The Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors without Borders) are amazing. There are incredible people out there doing what little they can to improve the lives of the African peoples, at great risk to their own lives." Colette had been reading up far and wide on the African tragedy.

"True enough, and I admire them tremendously. Got friends working in the organization. The problem is, the World Bank keeps these countries enslaved with third world debt from which they will never recover. Just like other poor countries. The powerbrokers of this world have an invested interest in third world debt and enslavement of the rightful owners of their countries." Emile sounded embittered. "I work with a group who try to educate people about this."

Colette was impressed and her respect for this interesting man increased. "That's wonderful."

"It's a slow process and until there are massive changes in public opinion about the enslavement of countries through third world debt, it will continue." He sighed and lifting his left hand to his eyes, rubbed them wearily.

"Who amongst us in the West, will take the time to listen to the cries of profound human suffering?" Colette queried. "Whilst we remain comfortable with our own patch, we'll continue to pay lip service to righting these wrongs, but how much effort will an individual make to ensure it happens?"

Emile looked at her in surprise. "We can. The more people with high profiles put themselves out there in front of the public, like Bono, Sean Penn, Susan Sarandon and her husband Timothy Buttons, lending their profiles to the issue. "

"But the ordinary man who works for these corporations is not prepared to take a stand against them if it means drawing attention to themselves and a loss of job and income. And who can blame them? How on earth can they stack up against such power and money?"

"People have, and are making sure the focus stays alive. But you're right. People continue to buy the products these companies produce. The sanctions should be against their products, not against poor countries if they dare to step out of line." Emile acknowledged.

"We have to keep trying though. These people have absolutely no possessions, schools are non-existent, and if they did there are no books to teach from. No staples, literally no food, or medicine or clinics, or drugs for malaria and many of the people are still unaware malaria is caused by mosquitoes. In the midst of this appalling suffering, Coca Cola, Sprite and Fanta appear for sale. The vultures are waiting at the borders to invade commercially, once the marauders have done their worst. I despise them."

"It's heartbreaking Emile and I realise how smug I am in my own world." Tears appeared in Colette's eyes and she felt sick to her stomach.

"As long as powers that set wages and salary ratios, give us enough to put a fancy roof over our heads, the ability to dine out with a good bottle of wine, travel as the mood takes us, will anyone give up these comforts for people they don't know?" Sadly he shook his head. "We're too comfortable and with job security being a thing of the past, you're right, everyone is focused on their own survival."

"Could I become involved? I would love to make a difference."

"Write about it Colette. Your words reach millions."

Eagerly she sat up and took her hands in his. "I intend to?" Her commitment was obvious. "I can't just sit back and have these atrocities beamed into my living room each evening. People have become numb to cruelty and war. It's obscene."

"Trust me. I know about the power of words from well known people." Emile gently smiled at her. "They need all the help they can get and so does the organisation I'm with."

"Then show me everything so I can start an outline straight away."

"You asked for it. "He drew her closer. "It's tough and bloody but it's worth it. We can't back off. No matter what. They are a perfect example."

"That's what I could write about. Well done Emile." Colette became very excited. "There are authors writing about this, most of them men and I have my favorites." Colette was thoughtful. "A woman would bring a different perspective. Not so much an action thriller, but the focus on the misery and tragedy in the wake of the diamonds."

"You could give a human face to the people who are being killed in the name of profit." Emile became animated, as he thought about the possibilities of a high profile writer working alongside the organisation he belonged to.

"In Zimbabwe, the world turned its back on the scorched earth campaign in the 1980's, where hundreds of thousands perished. Food was actually used as a weapon by the ruling elite. They withheld it and starved them to death. The coups, assassinations, disappearances and wars, carried off the rest. The illegal trafficking in blood diamonds was glorified by the movies that were made. The world believes because it's over because the war in Sierra Leone is resolved, but it's crap. They just push the peasants off their lands to starve if they know there are diamonds there."

Colette was stirred by his words, feeling ill as he continued and guilty that she had ignored these burning issues so far.

"This is the legacy of the history of Africa." Emile sounded so embittered. "They're being shaken down by every greedy son of a bitch on this earth and they don't deserve it. This is our everlasting shame," he continued, as his arm tightened around her. "How do we live with ourselves?"

Her heart broke at the anguish in Emile's face.

"If you help me with the background, I promise I will write about these blood diamonds in my next book and assist your organisation in any way I can. A portion of my royalties will be used for the disaffected of the world." She told him. "I live in such luxury compared to them." Reaching into her pocket for a tissue she wiped the tears that were streaming down her face.

"Bless you." Emile whispered. "We all wax on lyrically about the injustices in the world, hold dinner parties where we pontificate about social justice but what do we actually do about it.

They both sat contemplating the treacheries of the world for a moment or two.

I have to go." Emile rose reluctantly. "I've got work to do."

"I know. It's been wonderful. You've given me the idea for my next manuscript and a reason to get up in the morning, apart from you." Rising, she linked her arm in his and they walked out to the garage. Fondly saying farewell, she watched him climb into the car, start up the car, reverse and drive off.

After waving Emile goodbye, Colette happily snuggled up in the parlor to read, when the phone rang.

"Colette, its Annie."

"Hi, how are you both?"

"We're great. Do you like horses?"

"Sure." Colette was mystified, wondering where this was leading.

"Every year we hold the Hampton Classic. Because I have an equestrian background, I'm a volunteer. We follow the events closely and wondered if you would care to come one day."

"I'd love to. Don't know much about eventing, but I think horses are the most magnificent animals."

"The opening day is fun, with dogs competing as well. Fiesta day is great fun. It's another day which celebrates other ethnic cultures that are moving into the area."

"Sounds fantastic. Let me know when and where."

"Will keep in touch and we'll arrange to meet."

A life was developing for her in this lovely area and she was feeling very contented and well pleased with her world.

That evening, feeling content, she switched on the documentary channel. The program was about the atrocities that occurred during the genocide in Rwanda and it set her heart aching all over again. Looking around at her comfortable surroundings, she felt a tremendous amount of guilt.

Angrily, she switched off the channel and wandered out onto the deck, determined to make a difference to that poor benighted continent. After seating herself in a comfortable deckchair, she watched the light softly fade to wrap itself around the house like a warm blanket. Shadows stole close, to become familiar companions, gathering her gently into a soft, safe cocoon, as she daydreamed about the Africa Emile knew and loved.
Chapter 48 – Sierra Leone 2002

The Ilyushin IL-76 touched down at the airstrip in Monrovia, the capital of Liberia. Arkadiy alighted from the aircraft, moving towards his buyer. Here he was, seated at a table in the middle of nowhere, across from Satan's son. From there, the goods would be loaded into trucks and driven across the border into Sierra Leone and he would be free of Beelzebub. The GAZ 2975 TIGR (Tiger) high-mobility multi-purpose vehicle was perfect for the conditions of sub-Saharan Africa. Fast, flexible and relatively comfortable when compared to larger armoured trucks, it could cross rivers up to 1.2 meters deep and climb dunes at extreme angles. These would be the escort for the trucks. "They would give the ragtag army a chance for some target practice along the way." Arkadiy supposed. "God help any desperate civilians trying to escape from the marauding RUF along the way.

"Thank God he did not have to make the incursion into Sierra Leone this time." Many were the times he had personally accompanied their deadly cargo onto temporary airstrips cleared by the rebel army. For these trips they used smaller planes, such as the Antonovs, which were capable of landing on poorly maintained or makeshift runways and this was the norm.

Landings on dodgy airstrips and tarmac roads were hair raising, but you couldn't be too fussy in this part of the world. He considered it part of the job and accepted the risk. Some days he could have done without the adrenalin rush, but hey, the money was too good to walk away from. After all, he had survived Afghanistan.... twice.

The opportunity had been too good to pass up, so they were supplying the Taliban as well, under different auspices than the Cartel, who would have no truck with selling arms to Islamic factions.

They paid their pilots well, most of them Russian ex-Airforce and there was no shortage of willing employees, despite the high risk involved. Many times they landed on airstrips where the underbrush was cut to slightly below wing level, rather than clear-cutting an identifiable runway. The ruse deceived American satellites and in their first two years of operation, had shipped weapons into Angola, Liberia and Sierra Leone, netting a cool US$14 million.

Their pilots knew how to evade radars, use false identification markings and observe radio silence, flying with their aircraft navigation lights turned off. Most of them specialized in precise parachute cargo drops onto pre-arranged coordinates, having learned their lessons well in Afghanistan. They were essential for ammunition drops into Angola, where all the roads were mined. For this they were paid extraordinary money, earning US$5000-$10,000 per month. Big money in the 90"s.

One advantage working in the Cartel's favor, was the detachment of the governments in these conflict riven countries. Thank God, Sierra Leone was one of those resource-rich societies, where the resource rents were not seen as belonging to ordinary people and disappeared out of the country like a homing pigeon returning to its loft. Ably assisted by the President of Liberia, the RUF and ARFC could run amok as they pleased.

Whilst it was Ira's role to carry out the initial negotiations in diamonds for death delivering weapons, it was Arkadiy's to deliver these armaments face to face with unstable, often drug crazed rebel armies.

So here he was in this godforsaken part of the world, sitting at a table set up in the middle of nowhere, with a lunatic who was surrounded by men in camouflage combat uniforms the cartel had provided, as though this made the torture and mayhem they spread, permissible. There was an old Russian saying. Если вы хотите побежать с волками, то вы должны выучить завыть как волк. (If you want to run with the wolves, you have to learn to howl like a wolf.)

"You brought us everything."

"Everything that was on the manifest." There was no room for misunderstanding with this bully.

Arkadiy produced the document and passed it over to the second in command of the RUF. After a cursory glance, Sessay shrugged and shouting at his guards, gestured towards the plane with a toss of his head.

"Let us unload now." Turning back to Arkadiy, he followed his men, unable to wait to get his hands on the goodies, while his twisted mind imaged how he could terrorize the government army and civilians alike.

Arkadiy followed, whilst indicating to the pilot to release the cargo doors. As he did so, the men streamed into the plane. The keys were in the armored vehicles, so they simply hopped in, started the motor and they began moving out.

"You brought fuel?"

"I did."

More men streamed in as the vehicles were moved aside. Boxes stored in the wide bodied Ilyushin IL 75, were seized and carried out.

His buyer gestured to large long ones." What's in there?"

"The shoulder firing rocket launches you requested."

The man's face lit up with delight, at the thought of the destruction he could wreak against the government forces and innocent civilians with these powerful weapons.

"Open one." He instructed Arkadiy. As he did, the commander reached in and took one of the rocket launchers out. Putting it against his shoulder, he sighted it and pulled the trigger. Arkadiy was pleased the damn thing was not loaded.

More and more boxes were brought out. AK-47's. Some of these would find their way into the hands of the Small Boys Unit, the abducted children, some as young as seven or eight years of age, who would be terrorized, then doped up with cocaine and sometimes alcohol as well, then instructed to go out to terrorize and kill innocent civilians. It was a case of kill or be killed, but often not without horrific mutilations first, so the choice was limited for these confused kids, whose role models were now murdering thugs. Their own parents either dead, or so unreachable, they might as well have been.

Bandoliers of ammunition were in hundreds of boxes. Ragtag army members, without uniforms, would be handed these to drape as many as they could manage, around themselves, to shoot at anything that moved.

"Next time, we get you to bring tanks."

"Christ!" Arkadiy kept his thoughts to himself. "They're going to blitz the population now." He was well aware that the objective of the RUF was to clear all civilians from the mining areas, in any way possible. Too bad if it cost them their lives on the way. Their homes would be demolished and burned, so they had no option but to move on. As long as the mines fell into, and remained in the hands of the RUF, that was all that mattered. Of course, they would keep as many of the men and boys they felt were required to work the mines.

"My colleague is already in discussions about these with your friend next door."

"What about helicopters?"

"It's possible. Once the order is placed and paid for."

The rebel army's weapon of choice was the light weight AK-47 assault rifle. Compact, light, it could be easily be carried and used by the Small Boys Unit. Firing 600 rounds per minute, it was reliable, never jammed and was capable of inflicting the most horrendous damage.

Its inventor, Mikhail Kalashnikov, who designed the assault rifle whilst in a field hospital, recovering from wounds he received after the first world war, was appalled at what he had released on to the world in greater numbers than any other 20th century assault rifle. He later said he wished he had invented the lawnmower instead.

What terrible irony, that Arkadiy, without flinching, delivered the weapons of death and destruction, to Freetown which was established in 1792 as a haven for freed American Slaves and had since gained independence; and Liberia in 1820.

After all, the Cartel was merely following in the footsteps of the group of white mercenaries who had restored order temporarily in the mid 1990's with a promised share of the diamond mine profits. They just happened to be on different sides.

Luckily for the cartel, when the mercenaries left, the RUF being the persistent beast it was, had reacted in their normal fashion, to gain control of the diamond mines. The rebel army's signature terror tactic was physical mutilation. Operation No Living Thing was launched to kill, maim and displace all civilians within the area. Their rampage of venomous terror with machetes and axes, which were used to sever arms, legs, lips, ears and breasts from 20,000 civilians and sent to neighboring villages as a warning not to resist them. After the rebels ran out of supplies in a village, they would often burn it and kill whoever remained.

They left four-fifths of Freetown's buildings burned to the ground including, hospitals, clinics, schools and churches, when this was at its height. It was estimated 5000 children were killed and over 150,000 had no homes.

When the President of Liberia brought 350 RUF fighters into a Liberian anti-terrorism unit run by his psychopathic son, he also provided the RUF with a house in Monrovia. From there, a satellite phone link was established directly back to his official residence.

Arkadiy had seen planeloads of weapons and ammunition, trucked to White Flower, the President's official residence in Monrovia, and secreted in a secret bunker in the building.

Under different flags of convenience, bypassing borders, rules, and embargos, the cartel had flown in helicopters, armored vehicles, anti aircraft guns and tanks when requested. Arkadiy had orchestrated the airlifting of thousands upon thousands of assault rifles, grenade and missile launchers and millions of ammunition rounds, 122mm propelled canons, anti-tank rockets, anti-aircraft missiles and 20,000 mortar bombs. All for his taking, from the Ukraine. He was a very valued member of the consortium indeed.

Watching the trucks depart, he signaled to his pilot to start up the engines of the Ilyushin that would take him away from the venomous bloodletting about to take place; and bid farewell to the RUF's second in command. He had no trouble sleeping and was looking forward to the well earned holiday he had planned in the South of France.

Chapter 49 – The Hamptons September 2006

Emile was engrossed in finalizing the plans for the addition Colette wanted and sourcing the tradesmen. He had less than one month to deliver them. As she did not want to compromise any of the existing light, he decided to add the den/library by abutting on to the family/living area and following the line of French doors onto the deck, giving her three walls of floor to ceiling book shelves. An extension to the wooden deck would carry this in front of the addition and the large garden chess set would sit outside.

Colette would plant a lilac and blue wisteria, which would tumble down like a colored waterfall over an arched pergola she would build between the addition and the garage and another that turned onto the croquet lawn. More azaleas would be planted in the flower boxes for winter flowering and color, as they were one of her favorite flowers. A flowerbed full of old fashioned roses with their scent wafting through the air, was a must. One in the front of the house and one at the rear.

As she had wanted a library that was two stories high, with a mezzanine landing reached by a ladder, the work abutted into the existing pitched roofline from the front of the house and continued this line to the rear. From this mezzanine floor, french doors that opened onto the upstairs deck, were set in among the book shelves letting diffused light into this area. This way the library/den could also be reached from the Master bedroom by walking out on to the deck and through these doors.

The croquet lawn was to be set out beyond the garage with well placed wrought iron chaise lounges with comfortable squabs and similar tables. There were wonderful local artisans to make these. Her friends would love the Gin and Tonics on the lawn with the ladies dressed in their long white summer gowns and hats and the gentlemen in striped jackets, white trousers and boaters. She could use the space for specially selected invitation only book promotions as well.

"It's absolutely perfect." Colette clapped her hands with delight when she saw the model he painstakingly created. "I can't believe the light the house lets in after New York."

Emile retained an excellent good builder and suggested he give Colette a very good price. There was still a profit as the cabinets and shelves were to be made by a local master craftsmen Emile knew. "He's German and does outstanding work," he told her.

"Now we have one week before you move in and the madness begins. Let's go up to New York and stay a couple of days, take in a show on Broadway, laugh a little, love a little, go to The Crystal Room in Central Park for dinner. Do lover's things," Emile insisted.

"You can't take any more time out." Colette was concerned he would burn out. "You've rushed backwards and forwards to Long Island trying to run your own business, fitted in with all my plans.... and."

"Hush." He put his hand gently over her mouth. "I need time out with you. We can stay in Manhattan. You can see your publishers. I can go up to Long Island, and be back that night in time to go to dinner."

Colette acquiesced. It all sounded so delicious. The late summer's day was sulking, its bottom lip drooping, out of sorts and mournful, and was determined everyone would know how it felt.

Dusk was falling when Colette and Emile loaded up the car and headed for the Big Apple. On the drive up, the wind blew itself inside out and the evergreen firs shimmied like a Tahitian hula dancer caught up in the sexual ritual as she presents herself to her lover.

They dropped Hannibal off at the Rotolo estate where in typical Red Setter fashion he went wild with excitement at being with the other dogs.

Arriving in the city, they drove to the Pierre hotel, across from Central Park which was one of Colette's favorites.

Checking themselves in, Emile leaned towards Colette and tilted her face up. "I know a nice restaurant nearby. Do you want to eat out or in the hotel?"

"What about room service." She grinned at him mischievously. "And we could have it in bed."

"At your service madam." Emile was only too happy to comply with this suggestion.

"I was hoping for that sir," she flirted outrageously.

Leisurely they chose light meals with wine, rang down and within half an hour it was delivered and a most pleasant evening took its course. Both slept well and awakening in the morning Emile showered first.

"The traffic will be appalling, so I'll be on my way. The sooner I'm off, the sooner I can get back to you." Wrapped in the hotel bathrobe, Colette took his arm and walked him to the door.

"I've got an hour yet before I am due at Doubleday. They're not far away."

Turning, he put his arms around her and smelt her hair. "God you smell good."

"Hurry back, my lord and master," she teased.

"Make sure you meet me at the door wench, ready to meet my every desire." Emile lasciviously grinned at her.

Farewell again! The kiss goodbye at the door. He turned, hand raised in salute to her, then reached out to press the call button on the elevator. The whirring stopped as the elevator arrived on the floor. The doors slid open and with a final smile and wave of his hand, he stepped inside and the cabin carried him away.

Moving back inside and closing the door behind her she thankfully leaned against it for support. What on earth was wrong with her? Too much wine at lunch? In an attempt to shake off the feeling, she lay down on the bed for a minute. Thankfully she sank down into the softness and allowed sleep to claim her.

Chapter 50 – New York September 2006

Colette sat up in bed abruptly. Tears were streaming down her face as she rose from the bed, stumbling blindly into the bathroom to look in the mirror and anchor herself in the present. The African dream has returned to claim her soul once again.

Can she afford to let go and trust Emile? He did not appear possessive and jealous as Basil was. He didn't crowd her. He left her room to breathe. In this lifetime, she was in a far stronger, independent situation where she could make a free choice.

Could she only live in chaos and disaster or were these products of her imaginative author's mind? Was she able to reach out to a warm, loving man and enter into a successful intimate relationship? First the recurring dream with Basil and now this one which would hopefully pass and not repeat itself.

Pulling herself together, she showered and dressed then set off for the publishers on 5th Avenue.

After hours with her editor going over the proofs and working to bring the novel to its final draft, she was feeling droopy.

Having arranged to meet her friend Natalie for a drink in the hotel lounge, she sank gratefully into one of the lounge chairs.

It would be great to catch up with an old friend again and as Natalie walked through the hotel, Colette was up out of the chair and they fell into each other's arms. "It's great to see you." They both intoned at the same time. "What have you been up to?" they chorused and laughed at each other with the familiarity of old friends.

Both of them sat down in the comfortable tub chairs and beckoned a waiter over. "What about a nice hot drink?" Colette suggested.

"I'll have a cognac, that will warm me up nicely."

"And I'll have an Irish coffee thank you." Colette smiled at the man.

"Now tell me all." Natalie was eager to know about the new man in her friend's life. Some happiness was long overdue.

The waiter returned with their drinks and placed them in front of the two women. Both of them raised the drink they had ordered and Colette took a sip of the Irish coffee. "God, That's good, I was cold."

"Yum." Natalie was so excited she nearly spilt her cognac all over herself. "Tell me, tell me quickly."

"He's a lovely man but I'm having doubts."

"For heavens sake why?" Natalie looked at her friend with concern.

"I'm so confused." Colette shuddered. "In my heart I know he is the complete opposite of Basil, but I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

"Oh God, I don't want to buy into another dysfunctional relationship."

"I don't believe you will. You look so happy." Her friend reassured her.

"Perhaps you are right. This relationship will be the opposite of that I had with Basil."

"What have you go to lose Colette." Natalie reached forward and took her hands in her own. "Give it a try. You can always walk away. You've learned to do that."

Colette looked at her friend thoughtfully. "You're right. I have learned. Emile's so nice," she said wistfully, then looked at her watch. "He'll be here soon. I want you to meet each other."

And they did; and liked each other.

"Have to be going, great to meet you Emile. Look after my friend." Natalie stood and leaned forward to kiss them both.

Emile stood and in European fashion, kissed her on both cheeks. "I will. Never fear."

"Shall we dine in tonight madam?" Emile turned to Colette and crooked his arm.

Standing, she tucked her arm into his. "I've made a booking at Tavern on the Green. I love it there and you made the suggestion," she countered. "I want to show you off. Let's go up and shower and change, I've got something I want to tell you."

Slowly they meandered contentedly up to the room. Entering she led him to the couch. "Let's have a glass of wine." And she went to a bottle she had ordered up whilst they were downstairs, pulled the cork and poured the glasses. "Settle in because I'm not sure how you'll take this."

"Good heavens, what have you been up to?" he took the glass off her and patted the couch alongside him.

Lifting his glass, he turned and raised it. "To us, we're good for each other."

Colette sat and they clinked glasses in a toast.

Emile sank into the chair while looking at her. "Are we good for each other?" Pensively he held her gaze as he tried to elicit a positive response from her.

Colette took a mouthful of wine and put the glass down on the side table. "We're very good for each other." Glancing at her watch she started. "Heavens, I've made reservations for 8pm at the Crystal Room. We'll have to move."

"A quick shower and change and we'll make it."

"Then we had better not shower together," she tossed laughingly over her shoulder on the way to the bathroom.

"Hey what did you want to tell me?" Emile called after her.

"Leave it until we get back," she called out from the shower.

Curiosity piqued, Emile followed her into the shower. "Can't you tell me now?"

"I'll tell you at the restaurant."

"Okay, I'll wait, but I'm damn curious."

The restaurant in the middle of Central Park is one of the most stunning in the world. A room built entirely from glass with large crystal chandeliers lighting the interior, it is absolutely magical in winter with the snow falling down outside. Although the wrong season for snow, it was cooler as autumn was approaching fast.

Emile was so proud to escort Colette into the magnificent room. Dressed in a simple cream dress with matching coat, set off with her favorite Chopard bracelet and matching necklace she looked stunning and heads turned to watch the progress of the stunning redhead and her partner when they entered.

"Every man and woman in the room is looking at you, "he whispered into her ear as they were shown to their seats. "The men are envying me being the man in your life and the women are simply wishing they were you."

"That's because I'm with you, you gorgeous hunk," she whispered back.

As they sat down, Colette reached across and took his hand. "Isn't it magical?"

His eyes lit up and the edges crinkled endearing him to her. "Wonderful. More so because I am with you."

Ordering a celebratory bottle of Taittinger champagne, Colette's favorite, they were too wrapped up in each other to notice anyone else. When the champagne arrived and the waiter poured it into the flutes, they raised their glasses. "To us," they toasted each other. Reluctantly tearing their attention away from each other as the waiter approached with the menus, they took their time perusing them, made their choices and then absorbed themselves in each other again until the starters arrived.

"What did you want to tell me?" Emile's curiosity was getting the better of him.

"I've changed my mind, not the time and place."

"You're driving me crazy you little witch."

"It's special, I want to tell you back at the hotel," she whispered conspiratorially.

"Your every wish madam is my command," and he toasted her once more. "To the most beautiful woman in the room."

"I wouldn't go that far," she laughed gently, loving the compliment.

"I would.... and stand by my comment."

The entrees arrived and they leisurely paced themselves, wanting the night to last forever.

"Dessert?" the waiter enquired.

They looked at each other and knew it was time to go.

"No thank you, that was simply delicious."

They rose as one. Emile took out his mobile phone and dialed the limousine as they walked to the foyer and they climbed into the vehicle and drove away, oblivious of jealous eyes watching them from a party across the room.

Chapter 51 – New York September 2006

Driving off, they were too absorbed in each other to notice Basil glaring after them.

"That fucking bitch." The banker was beside himself with rage, seething inside as he continued to smile and make small talk with the group at his table. "Showing off her new fancy man in one of my favorite restaurants. How dare she display herself like that, knowing I come here often. I'll show her what kind of power I have." His right of ownership was in full cry.

Poor Basil, he would have been better served working off his proclivities for inflicting pain in the S & M salons that catered for the wealthy businessmen who require a little light relief after the daily trials and tribulation of life in the upper echelon. Allowing his rage and jealousy to seethe inside simply resulted in a bad case of indigestion.

After the limousine deposited them back at the Pierre, they tightly held hands as they rode up to the suite in the elevator.

"Remember the scene with Glenn Close and Michael Douglas in the elevator in Fatal Attraction?" As no one was sharing the elevator with them, Colette cheekily reached down to stroke Emile's crotch.

"Bit public in the Pierre for those carryings on," he gasped and held her hand against himself.

Colette arched one eyebrow and leered at him.

"You are full of surprises," Emile pulled back, "and how I love it." As the elevator purred to a stop and the doors opened. A couple smiled at them, as they waited to enter the car. Emile and Colette alighted and when the doors closed, broke down into peals of laughter.

Walking into the room, they shed their coats and Emile led her to the couch and settled her comfortably. "Another wine?"

"No thanks. Come here and I'll ravish you." Drawing him down, they cuddled together, content in each other's company. All was well in their worlds.

After a deep searching kiss, Emile drew back. "Now, what have you been wanting to tell me all evening?" he prompted.

Rising and propping herself up with her elbow on the back of the sofa, she looked at him searchingly. "Now?"

"Yes now you cheeky wench before we forget. It sounds interesting. I want to know."

"OK, but hold that passion." Colette was bent on being coquettish and saucy.

"I've noted that down."

"Emile. Like a lot of people, my childhood could have been better and I wanted to sort myself out. So I threw myself into some therapy and learnt to understand my attraction to emotionally unavailable men and situations. I've been afraid of commitment. These legacies we carry from childhood get in the way. They're a pain."

"I have to agree with you there," Emile sighed. "God knows I've made enough mistakes."

"Heaven knows why I married Basil." Colette sighed. "It seemed to make sense at the time. Then it all fell apart. I thought I should have known better after all the therapy." She sighed and returned to her story. "Anyway, an experience I had recently, appears to make sense of it for me and I need to share it with you."

"Fire ahead." He encouraged her, as she hesitated.

"Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb." Shrugging her shoulders, she jumped right back in. "It seems to me there are legacies that influence us, other than those we inherit in this life from our parents." Colette hesitated again.

"What, like peers we grow up with etc?" Emile searched around, uncertain what she was trying to say.

"Well, more than that." Colette briefly hesitated again, and then decided it was better to find out if he would still be around after she had told him about her belief. "You know I'm a bit of a kook, believe in reincarnation and the esoteric, but I'm not off the planet, living on lentils and beans. People ask me where I get my inspiration from for my books. I honestly don't know Emile. It comes from somewhere I can't explain."

Emile reached out and took both of her hands in his. "I don't think you're a kook. You've got an amazing questioning mind."

"I really don't have to work hard at the storylines. They arrive out of nowhere, almost telling what to write about and I don't have a clue where they come from, but they are usually around 1.30am onwards. I obviously have a muse working with me and she keeps rotten hours. I sometimes wonder if I was a writer in a former life? It's the only thing that makes sense to me in this chaotic world. I long ago abandoned the belief of some benevolent God in the Heavens dispensing justice and love."

"I agree with you there, from the things I have seen in this life, but I digress. I'm sorry, please continue darling." Emile sought to reassure her.

"I'm absolutely fascinated by myths and legends. I get caught up in the drama of opera and theatres. I adore Greek philosophy. And thank God you share these interests with me and my passion for life." Smiling at him she begged silently for his understanding as she patted her stomach. "You love the long European lunch under the trees, with wine and good conversation, and we both love spicy, Indian and Middle Eastern cuisines. We're drawn to each other." And she closed her eyes in ecstasy at the thought of it.

"I know.... and I love it." He kissed her eyelids tenderly.

"I love the way you are open to new ideas and your compassion for other people." Reaching out, she gently stroked his face.

Emile was fascinated. This was part of her attraction for him. The mysterious Piscean woman, who understood and matched his own sensitivity and dreams. She took him to realms that enchanted him and wove spells around him. To him, like a chameleon, she was many women at different times. The enchantress. With Colette they could escape and wander the mystic realms together. And he was more than her match.

Colette took a deep breath and jumped in before she could change her mind about trusting him with her innermost secrets.

"I keep having this recurring dream about a family in Africa. Murdered by child soldiers. "She looked at him begging him to trust her. "This hasn't come from my reading about blood diamonds and I'm at a loss to know what it is about."

Quizzically raising an eyebrow, Emile ventured a suggestion. "Messages from the other side type of thing you mean."

Colette looked at him searchingly, wondering if he was mocking her. "I don't know. Am I meant to write about this and can I possibly make a difference by making people aware of these atrocities."

Emile had listened quietly and reaching out, drew her head to his shoulder. "Go with your instincts, they have served you well in the past."

"I really want to write about this and expose that it is still going on despite the cessation of the wars in Sierra Leone and Angola."

"Emile's thoughts turned to Janine, his ex-wife. "My ex-wife couldn't deal with my work with the agency. It was too dangerous and it frightened her. I wouldn't give it up and in the end we parted." He became thoughtful and admitted. "I think I'm a big of an adrenaline junkie and this fulfills that need. She was comfortable establishing a nest and was a warm, kind, loving woman, but she didn't understand my need to get involved." He shifted himself to a more comfortable position.

"Janine found a nice stable accountant with his feet on the ground, who could provide a stable, secure life and she left me to it." He had not blamed his wife, knowing he needed more than she could give him. He would not hold her back from a chance at happiness.

"I understand why. But you." He drew back and melted into her large green eyes. "You understand my visions and dreams. I understand your flights of fancy. I know there's something else that I'm seeking answers to and I'm happy to seek them with you." Standing up and taking her hands, he drew her up to him. "Let's see if we can find out together."

"Oh Emile, you're one in a million." The tears that started in her eyes made them shine like diamonds."

"I'm no-one special," her lover assured her as she protested. "I want to give you time, but if you can place your faith in me, I want to be with you." He searched her face for the response he wanted. "I'm not trying to rush you. It's another year before your divorce comes through and that gives us all the time in the world. No quickie Reno or Las Vegas divorce. We'll just sit it out and let it happen. Are you with me?"

"I've been so scared to trust myself and my feelings again. Asking myself if I was making the same mistake I made with Basil? But tonight was wonderful." Leaning forward Colette cupped his face in her hands and looked him in the eye.

"I'll never hurt you as Basil did, you must know that." Agitated, Emile sought to reassure her. "I don't believe I'm jealous and possessive, am I?" Searching for confirmation, he looked deeply into her eyes as though she could read his soul in his own.

"No you're not and I love it." Feeling she could trust him now, Colette felt she could now move on. "I was once coerced into a reading with a psychic. She accurately picked up on my marriage and told me I had a past life in China with Basil. He was a warlord, ruthless, possessive and jealous and that I would have to break free from his hold on me in this life."

Taking his hands in her own, she leaned back and searched his face for skepticism. "He certainly behaved this way in this life."

Emile considered this and shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? No-one has all the answers to the reason we are on this earth. Why should this view be unacceptable?"

"Of all the philosophies and religions in this world, I like Buddhism." Colette answered. "Gentle, non judgmental, their belief in reincarnation makes sense to me, but mostly I am impressed that they do not go to war over their beliefs, as every other religion does."

"True." Emile agreed. "Religion and greed. Coveting others lands, for various reasons."

"That's what saddens me so about the lives repressed people live." Tears came to Colette's eyes. "It makes me feel so guilty. I cannot help but consider the contrast between my life and that of the Africans, Palestinians and other third world countries. Even Israel, as it fights to hold onto their barren piece of land after 4,000 years of wandering in the wilderness. I consider my situation with Basil disastrous, but it pales in comparison to these unfortunate peoples' woes and suffering. I really have no concept of how bereft life can be."

"That's not true." Emile moved closer and put his arms around her. "It touches you deeply and you are prepared to make a difference if you can. That's what counts." He gently stroked her face.

Colette suddenly shuddered as she thought of the inequality of life. "It's the least I can do. I think I have been very lucky. And even luckier to find you."

"I'm the lucky one." Emile felt himself being drawn deeper into this woman's life.

"Something is pushing me to write about the blood diamonds and the legacy in Africa left in their wake. Maybe this is what the dream is about." Colette broke free of his embrace and rose to pace around the room. "To write about the trail of misery, as unethical people with no conscience brutalize them for their own ends, creating more misery. There is no way I can back off this."

Emile had the greatest admiration for her and was delighted she now shared one of his passions. Rising from the couch, he stood and put his arms around her, smelling her fresh clean hair.

"Oh Emile, I feel as though I've come home," she sighed contentedly. "I feel I can move on now and with you in my life, I feel blessed."

"Christ." He pulled her closer to him. "I've been so scared I'd lose you. I wondered if it was too soon after the experience you had in marriage with Basil." Drawing back, he looked into her face and hastened to reassure her. "That doesn't mean I'll become possessive and jealous, I promise. I'm happy to wait and keep an open mind."

With a contented sigh, Colette leaned over and picking up both glasses of wine handed him his. "Our relationship is symbiotic. We're so lucky we found each other. To us once more." Raising their glasses in a toast, they both let go of the past and doubts of a future.

Chapter 52 – Tel Aviv 2005

Ira Lemontov was busy planning the next haul out. He loved being at the centre of the action and if you traded in diamonds, Tel Aviv was certainly the place to be. He had a luxury home in the orthodox enclave of B'nei Brak, (the Beverley Hills of Israel) with another luxurious home in Caesarea; and apartments in Monte Carlo, New York and London. Business was brisk.

"Shimon." Seated in his office in Tel Aviv, he picked up the telephone and rang the grandson of the family who were one of the driving forces behind Israel's transformation, from a leading diamond center to potentially the world's most important trader in the gems. From humble coffee shop origins to global prominence. It's a tale of grit, talent, and ruthlessness, but is there any other way to world dominance?

The trade has operated for centuries in secrecy, tighter than any clam as it closed its shell on an unwilling victim and outsiders are trying to pry it open to share in the riches. "My friend, I have another delivery for you. Can we meet?"

Shimon was a young man resembling his grandfather in many ways. Yet another forefather who was originally part of Irgun, the militant group that fought for a Jewish state. They had smuggled in immigrants; bombed Arab buses and markets; attacked the British; and were involved in an infamous massacre of up to two hundred and fifty Arab men, women, and children. The grandson has been shadowed by stories of military perks for diamonds.

He was a cool customer who had managed to garner a huge corner of the markets from Africa for many years, until there was a huge falling out with the ruling puppet of one nation,who was then vilified, assassinated and replaced. Circulating rumors about the deal were denied and an African official who had echoed them was quickly jailed on unspecified charges. He never saw the light of day again.

"Sure Ira, come to see me tomorrow."

This is an industry that has endured war, pogroms, an inquisition, and the advent of modern technology, all without much change. It is largely a family business in which traders work on trust, eschewing written contracts, and out of necessity, has drawn Jewish families since medieval times. For a long-persecuted group banned from commerce and landownership in many places, diamonds offered a guaranteed, portable way of making a living. Those were hardscrabble times, but even then, diamonds were an international business.

The trade has expanded since then, but it is still strongly rooted in Jewish communities. Diamond dealers the world over are known by the Hebrew term Yahalom Manin. Deals are sealed with a handshake and the Hebrew words mazal ubracha, or luck and blessing. Gems can be brought or sent halfway around the world for inspection without any guarantee of purchase.

In this environment your good name is worth everything. Disputes are settled internally at peer-review courts. Wrongdoers face a penalty more serious than jail. Expulsion from the diamond community.

Today it is Israel's second-largest industry, with the country buying some 50% of the world's rough diamonds. Most of these go to America, which buys two-thirds of the world's polished diamonds.

The trade has been global for centuries. Stones can be mined in Africa, polished in Europe, and sold in Asia. Internationalism is at the root of some of the industry's modern problems: It makes oversight difficult, just as the trade's clannish, family-based nature does.

The following day Ira entered the elevator and rose to the twentieth floor of one of the middle buildings in the complex that comprises the Diamond Center in Ramat Gan. It is interconnected by a set of internal bridges and is one of the showpieces of Tel Aviv. Greeted and shown into Shimon's office, they embraced and enjoyed a coffee before getting down to business.

"Where from this time Ira?" Direct and to the point, Shimon was a small framed wiry man who worked out daily to deal with the stresses of life at the top.

"Zimbabwe. They're pushing peasants off the land and continue to use them as cheap labor. They're good quality."

"I agree."

"How did the Croatian work out last time?" Shimon leaned forward, keenly interested in the alternatives.

"I used him for the Antwerp trips. He worked out fine, but I won't use him again."

"Are the arms coming in through the Russians, along with some military training?"

Ira nodded. "Yes."

"I don't want to be involved in that any longer." Shimon's hatred of Russians ran deep. His family's history of persecution was deeply rooted in that land."

"OK." Ira lounged back comfortably in his chair. "Mossad will provide the training. I'll work it out for you. If not, I'll just involve you in the diamonds that go straight back into the government bribes."

Shimon shrugged. "The cut-outs are working as well?"

"Oh, I've got a personality conflict between the Russian arms merchant and British banker. I wish they could sit on their egos just once in order to get business done. I'm thinking about replacing both, or one of them. No-one's indispensable. I don't want to have to rebuild the Ark, but I might have to."

Shimon grimaced and gestured towards Ira. "What close down the organization?"

"No, I thought about cutting out the USA link, but I don't want to have to reroute the money, or expose Israel, so if I have to, I'll just replace them, with a stern warning to their principals via Mossad."

"Let me know if I can assist in any way."

"Thanks Shimon. It's pretty well covered. Far reaching tentacles of foreign powers with similar goals tend to fall into line pretty quickly."

Both men fell silent as Shimon gestured towards the coffee pot. Ira nodded and leaning forward topped up his cup. The industry had come a long way from humble coffee shop beginnings to this glittering tower, but it still remained highly secretive.

Having concluded his business with Shimon, Ira made his way to his favorite restaurant in Tel Aviv for lunch in Shenkin Street, which is reputedly the place to see and be seen in Tel Aviv. His wonderment of the city established on barren rock, with nary a drop of oil in sight, never faded. From the open air market off Rehove HaCarmel to the Azraeli Centre tower project that was being built, it was a true reflection of the old and the new in this vibrant city on the shores of the Mediterranean.

The city housed the world class Israeli Philharmonic Orchestra and the Habitat National Theater, which had originated in Russia. There was plenty of night life comparable to any other major city in the world.

While he ate, he turned over his conversation with Shimon in his mind.

Considering the revenue that flowed through the small, tightly-knit world in three narrow streets in Antwerp, dominated by Indians, Belgians and Israeli Jews, together with the Lebanese, business relationships could still be based on trust and handshakes. Its climate of secrecy invited abuse and was a diamond smuggler's dream.

Ira was very contented with the state of affairs. Not surprising, when roughly $23,000.000.000 dollars a year in turnover flows through the district, of which an anticipated $3,000,000,000 or greater is derived from the rough diamonds which are smuggled into Belgium every year. This was Ira's business and he had a fair share of it.

God forbid any moves to impose a diamond embargo of African countries known to be exporting smuggled stones would be successful. Ira need have no qualms as there was little enthusiasm in the United Nations for such a move.

Regimes and loyalties change with the winds of fortune and Ira made it his business to always be at the forefront. Abuse of power did not concern him. Blood diamonds and oil. What a lethal combination.

One just kept one's wits and managed a very agile quickstep to stay ahead of the pack. Ira could always be relied upon to perform a respectable and lively Horah at weddings and festivals.

Chapter 53 – The History of Diamonds

Colette was delighted Emile had come to New York with her. Their lives were now inextricably entwined like the linking tendrils of a climbing rose as it forced its way from its roots to the farthermost reach on its journey to the energy source that gave it life.

Both of them had breathed new life into each other and were glowing with the flush of a new love.

While they were in Manhattan, it had been a perfect opportunity to choose the furnishings for Colette's new domain.

Redeeming from storage, the wonderful antique desk she used for writing in New York, it would take pride of place in the library/den which Emile had designed.

She also retrieved her beloved Erté, art deco pieces and her hand blown glass pieces by Colin Heaney, a Canadian who had immigrated to Australia thirty years previously. Discovered in the beautiful coastal area of Byron Bay on one of her visits to that continent, his unique hand blown vase in soft blue, opaque and transparent swirls, held exquisitely blown glass flowers in pale yellow, lilac, blue, and a deep sea green. These would look wonderful in the dining area.

The décor in no way reflected that of the townhouse in Sutton Place. For the dining room she chose a table, chairs and sideboard by William Yeoman of England. Huge deep sofas and large chairs by the same designer would be scattered throughout the living areas. Light hyacinth and sage green in the informal areas. The formal lounge would hold two sofas and two large comfortable chairs in deep blue, patterned with a fleur de lis in cream, with a hint of bronze.

This lifestyle would be far more informal, with simple white Kayser china, Cristofle stainless steel cutlery and for a touch of luxury, her Baccarat crystal glassware.

"I know the most amazing German cabinet maker in Williamstown." Emile told her. "He is a real craftsman. Let's go and see him."

She had been more than impressed with the pieces he had shown her and placed an order with him.

While the building went on around her, Colette had set up her laptop in the family room. Emile was in and out supervising the progress and she captured him during a break he had taken to have coffee with her.

"Let me run these notes past you please. I would like your opinion on them."

He loved sharing her life, watching her work, listening as she pieced the story together. Not for a long time had he been so contented.

"I thought I would lead off with something like this......

What is this attraction to diamonds, which leads men to kill for them? Women crave them and people adorn themselves with diamonds as symbols of wealth and success?

"What do you think Emile."

He nodded, "I like it."

"I've just called it Blood Diamonds as a working title. The publishers will have the final say."

"Then I've continued in this vein, no pun intended."

In their natural state, diamonds are the crystalline form of carbon. Created in molten rock 75 to 120 miles below the earth's surface, they thrust up in volcanic eruptions as kimberlite pipes, she read. They must cool quickly; otherwise they turn into graphite or carbon. Most diamonds are over 3 billion years old, but there are younger diamonds which are only 100 million years old.

"Do you think that's too technical?"

"No I don't. I think people will be interested in the background."

She smiled at him and continued.

Diamonds may be a western world girls (or guy's) best friend, according to George Gershwin and Marilyn Monroe, but not in the lives of ordinary Africans. These brilliant gemstones are a source of misery and terror to them. They are expendable if they lie in the path of the ruthless who covet them.

Injustice and horror stalks the land. The gray men who control the world's commerce and finances, straddle the top of elite external networks and see this as an expedient necessity, in their quest for more wealth. Backing psychopaths, they control the military and government internal forces, who revel in the gore and blood like the ancient gods who demanded sacrifice. Baal has been resurrected in modern times.

Roving bands of murderers, some young children, wallow in the sad power they maintain over a terrified populace. Other children who will never live to be the age of these little assassins with guns are exterminated by those, let loose in a world gone insane lusting after personal gain.

Diamonds. A valuable commodity which would benefit the populace and raise their standard of living, is denied to them by predatory governments and the external networks.

The world is more interconnected now. We hear of abuses that once would have gone unnoticed: smuggling, corruption, the use of diamond revenues for the savage civil wars that have devastated Central Africa for over a decade now. Blood diamonds, tiny unpolished gemstones, which in their greed incite men to savagery.

Every night, atrocities, war and famine are beamed into our living rooms on the largest plasma television screen money can buy as we compete to be the winner, the liturgy drummed into us by governments, sports and corporate employees, We exhaust ourselves in the quest to compete against our friends, neighbours and colleagues. To achieve? Achieve what? To be the biggest bastard and join the ranks of those utter bastards at the top of the pile? Why is it not good enough to be the best you can be?

We pay lip service to the misery and squalor in third world countries, but will we take steps of serious intent to ensure the atrocities committed against them ceases? It's doubtful. This would mean we could be impelled to give up much of what we have achieved to maintain a lifestyle choice we coveted and gained?

Why do we allow ourselves to be suckered by merchants and banks into a personal debt ratio we cannot possibly maintain? Greed! So many people caught up by the carrot held in front of us by slick marketers, to enrich the already wealthy who intend to stay that way. God help anyone who gets in their way.

They propagate competition. Setting friends and colleagues against one another in the I want it and I want it now culture.

Most of the world shrugs off the misery of other lives being destroyed in order to ensure we work, live and play in a pampered cocoon. The powers that be ensure the middle classes are paid enough to keep them complacent, but not enough to elude the grasp of their masters, Maintaining the status quo which continues to benefit those at the top is imperative.

Will we complain or show serious intent to better the lives of these people at expense to ourselves? Probably not! Will we upset the status quo and lead protest marches, if it means losing travel opportunities, wining and dining out? Go without planet polluting air conditioning in offices and homes, or the "must have" huge refrigerators that plop ice out of the front door as though the machine was crapping, to put in beverages with small umbrellas growing out of them. Not very likely.

Will we give up our gas guzzling SUV's, fuelled by Western Governments invading Middle Eastern countries, against a United Nations resolution to be the purveyors of illegal wars and misery.

We angst over the third world countries' lot, but we've paid the price to pull ourselves out of the gutter and are less likely to endanger our own personal lifestyle to help others less fortunate.

We'll continue to pay the hugely inflated prices for food and beverages demanded by huge corporations that dominate the food industry. Waiting like vultures at the borders during destabilization, are the multinational corporations who flood in like the plague of locusts from the bible.

Food thrown away deliberately in order to ensure the corporate bottom line wallows in profits large enough to feed a sub-continent. The poor in our own countries could benefit from this food, but no such compassion exists.

The elite networks benefit from promoting instability on the African and other continents. Its representatives in the Government and the Defence Forces have fuelled instability by supporting armed groups opposing the Government's line.

Throughout history, divide and conquer has been the order of the day. Existing religions and cultures are normally obliterated, which leaves the masses vulnerable. Books and documents burned and destroyed, precious knowledge burnt on pyres of ignorance. Glorious statues and buildings smashed down in order to erect the new.

Greed and cruelty runs rampant and some of the most fascinating civilizations the world has known have been destroyed in the process. No wonder it takes so long to rise to those heights again, through bleak eras such as the Dark Ages and the Inquisition.

Africa's history has been cruel. Sold as slaves by other tribes to white men across the sea. The existing tribal lands had been divided, with no consideration of the rivalry between tribes, their common interests nor languages. Hatred was, and still is, deliberately incited to destabilize the continent and genocide results.

A populace at each other's throats is not likely to form a common enemy to repel the invaders.

This leaves the way clear for the invaders to pillage the valuable commodities. Ivory, rubber, gold, diamonds, uranium or human beings, leaving untold misery in their wake.

Those of us, fortunate enough to be born into a land of plenty, do feel the pain and suffering of the disenfranchised and feel impelled to help. There are wonderful men and women in Africa and throughout the world, taking enormous personal risks doing whatever they can to improve the lives of the citizens. Is it possible we have previously lived in circumstances similar to these and somewhere deep in our subconscious these memories rise and recall our own pain and suffering when no-one came to help us.

Of course we know it's wrong, but do we do enough to attempt to right the terrible wrongs of this world? How can we unite against the machinations of big business interests and their governments, who support the destabilisation? Maybe there are not enough who care deeply.

Continuing conflict in the rich agricultural plains around Nyunzu and Kongolo, has cut the southern portion off from what was once the breadbasket of Africa and led to starvation for tens of thousands.

International aid organisations have carried out studies and found in certain towns, twelve per cent of all children under five years old will die each year, and one out of every four children die over a period of two years. These deaths are not attributable to violence, but instead to illness, notably malaria and dysentery, which are conditions closely linked to malnutrition and the lack of medical facilities.

Malaria and dysentery are treatable. There are International non-governmental organizations who try to step in where government are negligent and facilities no longer function.

Unfortunately the revenue stream raised by these organisations is often diverted into the pockets of corrupt rulers, their minions and the military that is required to stabilise and control the populace.

About one-fifth of the world is rich, and another fifth is desperately poor and getting poorer, with the middle three- fifths actually making solid progress with sensible government security and time.

Why is the AIDS plague, far less devastating in countries like Uganda with a moderately competent government? At a cost of $1 per day per person, this disease could be managed and perhaps stamped out, but the pills that could do this are kept out of the country.

This epidemic is used to deflect the focus from the corruption and wars, which are engendered intentionally by external forces, which keeps driving Africa back into poverty. misery and disease over the past sixty years. In 1960, most African countries had higher incomes and better public services than most Asian countries. So what happened?

The difference between their lives and ours is so incongruous, it hardly bears thinking about. The human race should hang its head in shame.

What have these peoples done to deserve such unremitting terror? Surely they do not deserve to inherit such an atrocious legacy. Is this abomination of a life, payback for some atrocity committed in previous times? Or does seeking a reason, merely help us to live with this absurdity?

"That's great," Emile assured her as she stopped and looked at him.

"These are only rough notes but they help me to build the storyline."

"I understand."

Chapter 54 – Sierra Leone March 2001

Who says war crime doesn't pay?

As the helicopter hovered over the open pits of the mines in northeast Sierra Leone, Ira could see the workers scattered across the scarred surface which resembled the moonscape, like ants on an anthill. The naked men digging furiously, looked up to see who was flying above them.

It was the beginning of the new millennium and Ira had seen the writing on the wall. Sales of weapons to foment the wars that had torn the country apart, were dwindling to next to nothing. Civil strife in the country was settling down. Although illegal trafficking would continue, he needed to expand his business activities.

Now was the time to legitimize. Strike while the iron was hot. In an act of appeasement, Kabbah the President, had appointed Foday Sankoh, the rebel leader of the RUF, as Vice President and head of a commission to oversee exploitation of mineral resources including gold and diamonds.

In the same desperate move to pull the teeth of the rebels and give the fledgling peace process of July 7, 1999 a fleeting chance, Kabbah had also appointed another coup leader, Johnny Koroma of the ARFC, to head a commission responsible for overseeing implementation of the accord that ended eight years of civil war. An amnesty was also agreed for Koroma for his rebel troops.

Ira had thrown back his head and roared with laughter at the news. "My God, Ami, That's tantamount to Daniel in the lions' den."

"He believes it's the only way the fragile treaty will last. He's even given other members of the RUF, four positions in the government." Ami had shaken his head at the naivety of the President who was struggling to keep his hands on the tiller of a leaky boat wallowing in heavy seas.

"He's desperate," Ira agreed. "But acts of desperation are always doomed."

"Although foreign governments support the compromise, they have to be dubious about his chances for stable government."

"Didn't he learn anything from the 1997 accord between the two when they ousted him?" Ira was bemused; these were fox in the henhouse politics. They'll turn on him again."

"Probably." Ami had no doubt.

"I think foreign governments are worried about the accord and foresee more unrest."

"I agree, but when it suits foreign policy, these wars will be stopped and I think we should plan ahead."

"I've given some serious thought to that." Ira had been busy looking at ways to expand his flourishing business empire. "That's why I want to buy into the cutting and polishing business in Antwerp."

"That's possible, but I think we must look at other alternatives as well Ira." Ami had been in discussions with some pretty influential people in his own government about the future. "World opinion is forcing the UN and foreign governments to act and put pressure on these rebel forces to stop these civil wars. Once peace comes to the areas, there will be a mad rush to purchase controlling interests in the mines. Capital investment will be required to mechanize the process, so we can access deeper lodes and get greater capacity out of them." They needed a source of untraceable cash to keep their own party with Palestine alive. "These crazies are only interested in the gemstones to fund their wars, and their own personal lifestyles, so they don't invest in the mines and look at the long term potential."

"I don't think they are long term investors in anything other than their own bloated public profiles." Ira doubted they had the capacity to look beyond this distorted trait in their characters.

"So, how do we make this work for us?" Ami prompted.

"I believe we've seen the best of our deals in Sierra Leone and Angola. They're running out of steam. Liberia's still good for another few shipment. The Ivory Coast looks like a possibility. Liberia's busy fomenting trouble there. We could benefit from that," Ami ran through the possibilities.

"I'm not sure how long the Liberian dictator will last. Maybe another couple of years, but if he's not spinning off arms to Sierra Leone, he won't need much more." Ira had agreed. "Zimbabwe is still an option, we can always count on Mugabe. He's a greedy bastard, but you're right. It's time to diversify. Get into something legitimate before the hordes trample in once the war ends. There'll be a mad rush in the ensuing chaos. We should make our interest known to him whilst he's still beholden to us. His reign of terror, can't last much longer. The UN will have to move soon. There's too much external pressure."

"We could probably look at Coltan. I foretell an enormous worldwide demand for mobile phones, laptop computers, video cameras, consumer and automotive electronics, as microchip technology makes these smaller and smaller and more readily available. It's used in the tantalum capacitors for these products. I anticipate the price will rise steeply and could go higher US$300 per lb in a year or so." Ami had certainly been doing his homework.

"We'll discuss that at the next meeting." Ira admired Ami's perception and knew whatever he suggested would have great possibilities. Obviously he had been in serious discussions with technocrats.

Clearly it was time for them to diversify and Ira's mission on this particular visit was to explore the possibility of mining rights. Firstly, he would assess the operation. From there he would travel on to Freetown to meet with the Vice President of the country and work out a deal.

The time was ripe to exploit the situation before it broke down. The 600 members of the UN peacekeeping force would be insufficient to oppose any further moves against Kabbah and the population, so he had to strike while the iron was hot.

Chapter 55- Sierra Leone

His escort on this journey was Bokaire, who had accompanied him two years earlier. Now the Vice President of Sierra Leone, Sankoh was under house arrest and had entrusted his battlefield commander with the delicate job of keeping the conduit open.

In the years Ira had been dealing with them, the power had been passed around like pass the parcel from childhood games. Eventually Sierra Leone instituted a democratic election process. From the President Kabbah, to the Junta, then back to Kabbah. So the Junta spat the dummy and reignited the war.

The rebel warlord of the RUF, believing the Junta would carry the day, lost out and in a fit of pique refused to accept the election process or its result and withdrew back to the jungle. Releasing his Small Boys Unit on a brutal rampage across the countryside, he incited them to chop off the hands of civilians, in gruesome mockery of Kabbah's election slogan, The future is in your hands. The basic idea behind this was to place a further strain on government resources to care for the victims.

It also served to reduce them to starvation, as they could no longer work the fields to harvest the cassava, rice and vegetables.

Hyped up on dope, juju and superstition, the small boys unit went one better and lopped off arms, feet, legs and breasts in a frenzy of bloodletting. The population was also routinely used as human shields.

As they hovered over the mine, Ira could see the heavy mining equipment he had flown into Sierra Leone to expand the operations. Digging machines worked the area, loading the articulated dump trucks which carried the surface dirt off to be dumped. Bobcats were busy redistributing the dirt that the blasting and digging had moved aside, to enable easier access to the narrow shafts.

Nothing had changed for the workforce as far as Ira could ascertain. The same small framed men toiled, with children aged from eight to fourteen alongside them, clambering down the shafts with torches secured to their heads with bands, to dig at the pit walls. Others to carry the ore out of the shafts on their backs or heads.

Armed guards stood sentry, surveilling the workers who worked naked in case they slipped a small gemstone into a pair of shorts.

From there, they inspected the washing/sorting facilities, where the guards were responsible for the safe keeping of the gems, before they could be collected and taken to Monrovia for Liberia's President to purchase arms on behalf of the RUF.

The mine needed developing to release the greatest extraction potential. Studies had been carried out by the government prior to the war, but Ira wanted an up to date report, from his own geologist.

Turning to the aide, he made his demands known. "I need to know the potential for this mine, if I am to invest and increase the profits by using heavy earthmoving and drilling equipment. We'll need huge extraction machinery which has to be customized and built for the topography of this particular site, which will add significantly to the cost. I'm only interested if my return on investment will be massive. I want to bring in my own geologist to make studies of the terrain," Ira told the aide. In fact, Mossad had insisted on it. They would provide the man, used to working under dangerous conditions.

"Sir, you may bring in a geologist to study the site and make his report." Mentally the battlefield commander rubbed his hands with glee. More backhanders for him. It was time to pass on a little carrot from the man in Liberia. "I think you will be most interested in knowing that our friend in Liberia could have orders for you from the Cote d'Ivoire."

Ira's ears pricked up at this. They were not out of the game yet. Diplomacy had always been one of Ira's better skills and he would need it during the negotiations. With these rebel warlords, one had to keep one's wits about oneself.

Ira climbed back into the helicopter and flew off without a backward glance, or thought for the Sierra Leoneans he was depriving of their country's wealth.

Chapter 56 – Diamonds

The image of the diamond world as portrayed in James Bond movies is closer to reality than fiction. It really is full of intrigue, deception and former spies, with secret shipments, smugglers, danger and vast wealth created by illusion.

Sixty to sixty five percent of the world trade in diamonds, estimated to be as high as $7.5,000,000,000 dollars, ends up in America. Not bad pickings for De Beers, the British company that ran foul of the US Government by keeping prices high in violation of the anti-trust laws in America.

When Cecil Rhodes, De Beers' founder created his cartel over 100 years ago, he realized that the sheer abundance of diamonds in southern Africa would make them virtually worthless. So, he carefully manipulated scarcity and began his marketing campaigns based around romance. Whilst the company's near total dominance of the diamond market has slipped from 85% to 60%, by being the forerunners of the most powerful cartels in the annals of modern commerce, they have maintained the high prices of gem quality diamonds. His legacy to the world, being one of domination and greed.

**During the late 1930's, the greatest diamond trading company in the world hired an American advertising agency** to create a powerful, subtle campaign to convince millions of couples that romance and diamonds belonged together. The larger the diamond in the engagement ring, the greater their love. They even lectured to high school girls across the country and created the De Beers slogan, a diamond is forever, which still exists today. It remains the most successful marketing slogan which sells dreams in the world. Its creators care not one whit about the misery and suffering visited upon millions of lives by whim of someone thousands of miles away, who covets one of these gemstones.

As young career women today have a much higher earning power than their predecessors, new marketing campaigns target them directly as potential purchasers of diamonds for themselves.

Who will ever forget Marilyn Monroe declaring: "Diamonds are a girl's best friend." She may not have got much right in her sad life, but the little glittering stones proved to be far better friends to her, than the men she became involved with.

We may no longer believe that diamonds protect us from danger, but the gemstones remain powerful symbols of wealth and status.

This is the story of a crystal cursed by human greed. And as Washington debates the matter and the industry seeks half-measures, warlords and guerrillas with their voracious appetites ring up millions of dollars a day in the sale of conflict diamonds. As it spans the globe, the tentacles reach deep into government circles in the most powerful countries of the world.

As the gemstones move through the links of the chains of self interest, in the 5th Avenue office of one of the world's most influential diamond merchants, we find the deal broker known as The Diamantaire. The epitome of the wealthy and powerful diamond merchant of the legends, he spins his golden web and the willing are happily ensnared.

One of the elite in the diamond world, he is supplied with rich boxes of diamonds delivered to him every five weeks from London by the Central Selling Organization controlled by De Beers.

Moving in the elitist of closed circles, a small hitch such as a lapse in security, can easily be rectified, as top covert intelligence agents assist him. Apparently documents existed which exposed the identity of an intelligence station chief making a phone call on an unguarded line to The Diamantaire, during a conspiracy to overthrow a popular and elected African president, which were great leverage.

The Diamantaire's ultimate goal was control over the vast Russian diamond stockpile that threatened the largest diamond cartel in the world. To achieve his ends, he was seeking considerable funding from the government of his own country to make this a reality. As he stood to make $50,000,000 on the deal, he had a considerable vested interest in the outcome. So he went via the back door to the most powerful man in the land, the President of the USA, through the powerful man's wife. After all, they mixed in the same circles and she adored diamonds.

Meetings were arranged. One of the administration members with whom he had dealt, told him.

" We'll never get your scheme past Congress."

"Who's going to raise objections?" he queried.

"All of them," was the response.

"Let me talk to them".

"I can't prevent you from doing that."

So, away he went to every committee member and got their approval, then came back to the administration member, when another problem arose.

"You've taken care of one problem but there is still the press."

"What would it take for the press to like it?" queried The Diamantaire.

"If you cut your fee, no one would object."

"I might be willing to do that but I've worked on this for two years. I deserve something."

"One point five percent would be more palatable to everyone," the administrator suggested.

So they cut the deal, with The Diamantaire, agreeing to cut his fee from $50,000,000 to under $5,000,000, which still left him far from poor. It passed through Congress, in a world millions of miles removed from that of the oppressed people in the countries where the raw materials were buried in the earth.

It is rumored that some of a former First Lady's diamonds have their own story. They came from a diamond deposit in the Southern States of America. Purportedly sabotaged to keep it out of production, this left the American market dependent on the large diamond cartels in this cut throat industry.

Chapter 57 – New York 2005

Basil desperately wanted to be one of the obscenely wealthy. That small elite group, less than one percent of any country's population, yet control the majority of its wealth. They receive more income than the entire bottom half of the spectrum and Basil knew where he preferred to be.

Most of this is inherited wealth, of which little had fallen into his lap from his own family's dynasty. A sore point. One he was determined to overcome. It was so unfair that Desmond's side of the family enjoy the privileges of the aristocratic rich whilst he was thrown the crumbs from the table. There is nothing sadder than disillusioned, disinherited aristocracy.

No matter these dreams of Basil's were unrealistic. How to become one of them fomented in his mind and he would go down any avenue that offered him a chance.

How do we recognise the disparity in wealth distribution which has existed from time immemorial? Where do we find out who owns the majority of the wealth of any country? We don't.

Captains of industry with their bloated salaries and golden handshake package deals, are perceived to be the top of the spectrum. When the excesses of a public corporation have bled a public company dry, the enraged shareholders must be appeased, so the occasional sacrifice is made from this level of visibility.

The CEO is retired, rarely charged with fraud and usually allowed to keep the fortune he has amassed at the expense of the shareholders. This allows him to live in luxury for the rest of his life whilst his shareholders often lose their life savings.

It is not an easy thing to bring a behemoth to their knees and yet failure is often rewarded at this level with a position in yet another public corporation, which often results in the same misfortune for the shareholders.

Hidden from view, above the elite, is the true Valhalla of the obscenely wealthy, who are invisible to mere mortals. Tens of billions of dollars from wealthy corporations, finds its way into their deep pockets each year.

It's a one way flow for the stratospherically wealthy.

The trail is well covered. They dine with Presidents and lunch with Royalty. Their children are educated in superior schools and have access to advanced professional training. Networks of contacts and influence ensures they fly straight to the coveted cuckoo's nest at the top of the tree.

Where is this wealth obtained? Some of them are the old robber barons. Much of it has been obtained from the plundering of third world countries, usually under the guise of raising the standard of living in those countries. Of course, any monies left in the country of origin sticks to the fingers of corrupt officials, with little left over for the masses. As the few get wealthier by the minute, the number of poor has been increasing because accessibility of this wealth is withheld from them. The corrupt slither through the undergrowth like large pythons, devouring all in their path.

As Marx predicted, the gap between the rich and the poor is growing larger everywhere, as the vast disparity of wealth distribution increases. The wealthier the super rich and elite groups become, the more the middle class will fall into debt which is actively encouraged. The lower classes spiral down into poverty and live in ghettos. The interest on debt cancels out the modest gains of the middle class and the lower classes, who are taxed to support the infrastructure of the country they reside in, whilst the wealthy contribute very little. This burden ensures the middle class will never grow rich.

The sub Continent of Africa is falling far behind the peoples of the western world as their natural wealth is plundered. Last century the western countries' peoples were three times richer than Africans. Now they're thirteen times richer. In a country as wealthy as America and other western countries, the concept of poverty would seem like a dream to the ordinary Africans. No safety net of social services for them.

Chapter 58 – The Hamptons October 2006

Despite the warm breezes, the evenings were cooler and for better or worse, autumn was dipping its big toe in the water, testing the reaction. Gradually spreading its glorious mantle over the land, brilliant red, golds, and browns abounded, draping the trees in splendor and carpeting the ground. However, it was wise to be cautious of autumn as it grew colder. Lurking beneath the splendor, was the rot of autumn, which turned to slime after rain and one could very easily end up on one's ass in the most undignified position. It reminded Colette of the human slide down the slippery slope of old age, before the winter of death, to be reborn in the spring of a new lifetime.

The renovations were proceeding very well and Colette was basking in the feeling of her own home. It was time to get on with it. First the painting. In the informal living areas she chose butterscotch yellow, to reflect the sunlight that flooded into the rooms through the many French doors and the large kitchen windows, so the house appeared to glow. For the formal lounge, dining room and parlor she chose a light hyacinth red, which would make the rooms so cozy in the colder months.

This house was hers alone and reflected her personality. Bringing in touches of French Provincial, with lots of soft sage greens, yellows, and touches of soft reds and blues that made her feel young and joyous again.

The large comfortable sofas looked fantastic in their individual settings. When alone, Colette loved to throw herself on them and loll while gazing around in delight at the haven she had created for herself.

Large occasional tables accommodated treasured color plate coffee table books, as well as her beloved Erte pieces and another piece of Colin Heaney's. A tall ruby red hand blown glass vase, with soft swirls of silver on the base and hints in the body that simply glowed in the reflection of the hyacinth red walls. Large table lamps were scattered on occasional and sofa tables.

Baccarat again provided crystal bedside lamps in her bedroom and bracket lamps in the dining room. Their muted glow would soften the corners of the rooms, at night and in winter. Track lights lit only the kitchen at night which in the daylight hours was bathed in natural light that streamed in through the French doors and large windows. This was a house to breathe life in freely.

Alongside the sofas downstairs and beside the chaise lounge in her bedroom, were smaller occasional tables. Her favorite statuette, Windsong from the Les Femmes Enchantes collection by Ira B Reines, Erté's protégé, held pride of place on top of the chest of drawers. In her friends' opinion, this piece represented her personality. The lifelike figure's dress and hair blew in the wind, looking so carefree, which is how Colette was beginning to feel.

William Yeoman's furniture had really caught her eye and she chose a bedroom suite in a soft cream with a pinkish hue to it. Allowing the main bedroom suite to fill with the afternoon sun, the simple uncluttered lines, with the headboard of the bed patterned in the same materials as the curtains, were perfect. The designer's bedside lamps, were a perfect marriage with the Baccarat bracket lamps, allowing the softly lit master bedroom to glow with the soft hyacinth red walls.

French doors ran the full length of the upstairs deck from all the bedrooms on the eastern side of the house. The master suite with its dressing room, and two of the bedrooms, she painted in the soft butterscotch of the informal living areas, which was also repeated in the hallways. Two more bedroom suites faced the front of the house, and here she repeated the hyacinth red, so they would reflect warmth in the colder months.

Sage green patterned, full length curtains with lemon, soft hyacinth red and blue framed the windows throughout the entire house, which Colette felt enfolded her in its embrace. Knowing she belonged here, she couldn't help hugging herself with delight at the transformation.

French Provincial lattice worked wrought iron outdoor furniture with tone on tone coverings to match the interior, graced the deck. A huge wooden outdoor table would sit under the mature maple and chestnut trees in the summer months for long al fresco lunches. The barn was large enough to store the table in winter when the weather changed.

Although the large kitchen contained sufficient glass fronted cupboards for the informal dining china and glassware, she was a hopeless hoarder and an avid believer in retail therapy, so she had Emile plan more recessed cupboards in the informal dining and living areas and the German cabinetmaker fitted them. Linen cupboards recessed into the upstairs hallways.

The effect of the makeover was striking. Clapping her hands together with delight, Colette breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh Emile, it has come together just as I wanted it to."

"You've done a wonderful job," Emile complimented her. "I am so impressed. You have great style and taste. But then I knew that. You chose me," he teased.

Fitted book shelves that rose from floor to ceiling on three walls for the new library/den were filled with treasured books. Lovingly she would run her hand over the perfectly finished surfaces, relishing the sensuous feel of the glowing honey colored wood from New Zealand called rimu. The German craftsman's work was superb.

This was where she would write and the full wall of French windows overlooking the croquet lawn, let in a soft suffused light that she could burrow into and let her imagination roam wild.

The new addition felt as though it had been part of the original house forever and she thanked her lucky stars she had met Emile. He had designed the perfect space for her.

"I owe you dinner for the introduction to the cabinetmaker," she teased Emile.

"I can also think of other great ways you can pay me back."

Colette loved the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, lighting up his wonderfully mobile face which radiated warmth and enveloped her. Reaching out her arms she drew him close and prayed to the gods that this relationship would be forever.

Standing back and considering her work, she pivoted and looked at the walls. "Oh Emile, you have helped me make this a wonderful house to live in. You know," she said thoughtfully. "I don't have paintings. This will give me an opportunity to buy some."

"There are also some good galleries in this area and we can also have a look when we go back to New York when the book is ready for publication."

Rising in the morning was a joy. The sun streamed into the back of the house, picking up the yellow and bathing the interior in a wonderful warm glow, which reached out to embrace Colette in its soft hue, making her feel wanted and cherished. She in turn would cherish the house that welcomed her to a new world every day. Warmth was flooding back into her life and soul.

The garden was the restful area she had wanted to create and loved sitting for hours on the deck, soaking up the sun and surveying her domain. Birds twittered in the trees and pigeons cooed from the dovecote she had set up for them. Soon they became emboldened and wandered over to share meals with her.

"You'll create a bird haven if you aren't careful." Emile teased one evening as they sat contentedly drinking a glass of wine after their alfresco meal outside. The birds were alighting on the chairs around, begging for their share.

"They're so lovely to have around. I'm having second thoughts about a cat though, as they are such feral little creatures."

"Hmmm, lots of pigeon pie for them." Emile ducked as Colette playfully reached out to smack him.

"Let's have a dinner party." Colette was so excited. It was time to share her new home and their contentment, with their special friends.

"Good idea."

"How about friends of yours? Who would you like to invite?" They had both been so busy, that she hadn't really had a chance to meet many of Emile's friends.

"I'm really fond of Annie and Bill."

"Of course they'll be invited." Colette reassured him. "I know Ellie and Floyd will drive down and stay for the weekend. I'll insist they stay here so they don't have to reopen the house, but I really want to meet some friends of yours."

"As you want to buy some paintings, I've got some good friends who own a gallery here in Bridgehampton. Raymond and Louise. You'll like them."

"Great, give them a call. What about Jack?"

"I doubt if he will be able to take time out from the restaurant, but I can try," Emile promised.

Chapter 59 – Basil Escalates

A Green Jaguar XJ6 drove slowly past Colette's new home. When Basil saw Emile's Alfa Romeo outside he cursed. "So the bastard is there again."

The same private detective he had employed before to keep an eye on her, had ferreted out her whereabouts again. How naïve of her to think she could hide from him. Basil was working himself up once more and becoming emboldened now that things had quietened down after his last adventure with her.

Knowing Emile was the architect responsible for the renovations and the key role he now played in Colette's new life, Basil was seething and finding it hard to keep his emotions under control. Perhaps the meeting with the Russians had set him on edge more than he thought.

"I wonder if I could arrange their demise through them," he mused. "One night with a Chechen and poof? Goodbye Colette and the end of sweet dreams." Chuckling at the thought, he mildly admonished himself. Desmond was right, he would have to be careful not to let his fantasies take hold, but he was damned if he was going to let her get away with making a fool of him with another man. Christ, the guy was only an architect, nowhere near his league. What the hell was the matter with the woman? She never was comfortable in his social circle.

He drove the car further down the street and parked being careful not to leave it under a streetlamp this time. The land surrounding the property was large enough to eliminate nosy neighbors as he strolled back to the house. Working his way around the side, he heard voices on the deck at the rear of the house and hearing Colette's dared to move closer.

"Thanks darling, just bring them out here so we can enjoy the evening before the really cold weather sets in."

"Coming." A male voice responded.

Silence then "Mmmmm. That is as delicious as I am sure the drink is."

Basil's fury boiled over. How nauseating, carrying on as though they were two doves, cooing contentedly in the bloody dovecote she had installed. How demeaning. She had certainly lowered her standards since they had parted.

Bent on assigning Colette to the lowest his warped mind could summon, small bitter thoughts wallowed around in the oozing sludge that was his brain when it came to emotions. "The bitch is spreading her legs for this no-body." His stomach curdled at the thought. Mulling over possible murder scenarios as he stood there, he almost failed to hear the man say "Let's just take a stroll down to The Pond and back. We'll leave the house unlocked, it will be fine."

Basil scarpered but his mind retained the information he had overheard. "Hmmm they feel secure enough to leave the house unlocked." Gleefully his twisted mind filed this away for future use. The renovations are not complete. He would send the private detective back to reconnoiter. Good old British army word that. It conjured up visions of missions he did not have even have a nodding acquaintance with.

A true British aristocrat, he had been raised on a diet of rousing war games. Desmond's father had vast armies set up in their country house in Berkshire and the cousins had devoted hours to the re-enactment of famous battles. Basil had particularly liked the seek and destroy tactic.

In the meantime, things had been patched up with the Israelis and the Russians and as he felt the thrill of his covert power engulf him, he almost creamed his pin striped Brioni trousers.

Chapter 60 – The Hamptons October 2006

The day of the housewarming party dawned. It was wonderful catching up with Ellie and Floyd again. Colette hugged them both tightly.

"Colette, it's really beautiful." Ellie clasped her hands in delight as she looked around. "I didn't really know about the hyacinth red and yellow when you described it, but it's absolutely perfect everywhere. I love it. The house simply glows."

"I'm so pleased you like it Ellie."

"It's really a reflection of you, and by the way you're glowing these days."

"He's really nice." Colette looked bashfully at her friend. "I hope nothing spoils it."

"It won't. You're perfect together and it shows. Emile is happy as well."

As women do, Ellie and Colette hugged again. Her friend thought it was time she got a break.

"I've got a few things I want to do yet. A water feature on the deck, I love to hear the gentle trickle of the water. Nothing elaborate, I'm not looking for a work of art. The chess set is dynamic enough. Emile's German friend made the pieces. Isn't he amazing?"

"It's fabulous. Could we have a game tomorrow?"

"Sure, and when I get the croquet lawn in properly, I'll beat the pants off you."

"You'll have to practice first." Both women laughed delightedly as neither had played the game before but they were eager to learn. This would fulfil a dream of Colette's.

Ellie was grateful to see Colette brimming with life again. Basil had drained her during the marriage and all her friends had been concerned about the change. Emile was bringing her back to life again and the move to the Hamptons had been the best thing Colette could have done. As long as that English imbecile stayed away.

Emile's friends, Ray and Louie were a gay couple who turned out to be fantastic fun. "I thought you said the name was Louise?" Colette challenged Emile.

"That's what he tells us to call him."

"Who actually owns the gallery?"

"They both do. Wait until there is an exhibition. They're real showman. It's crazy. Everyone has a great time. Don't be misled though," Emile whispered in her ear. "Both of them are shrewd art dealers, know their stuff, and are great salesmen."

Louie toured the house exclaiming delightedly as he went from room to room. "Oh my God, Erte. Raymond come here quickly." As his partner sauntered into the room, he picked up Windsong and exclaimed. "Would you believe this, she has some Erté, pieces and one of Ira Reines, his protégé."

"Yes, I know who he is darling," Raymond drawled as he examined the pieces. "If you ever want to sell them Colette, give me first option."

"I won't ever sell them Raymond, but I promise you will have first option if I ever change my mind."

"And these furnishings," squealed Louie, hands fluttering in true queen fashion. "They're William Yeoward aren't they?"

"Yes, they are." Colette smiled at him.

"How do you know about him?"

"Well my dear, I am a New Yorker after all."

"Oh you're going to be such fun." Louie held her at arms length and looked her up and down.

You've got no right to be that gorgeous and talented as well. Do we all get autographed copies of the book and invited to the movie premiere? I heard about it from Emile." Leaning forward he kissed her on both cheeks.

"Louise, shut up darling." Raymond shook his head and took his partner's arm. "Be a good person and come out here with your champagne and look at the evening sky."

"Oooh, how romantic," Louie cooed and preened, as he minced towards his partner.

Ellie and Colette were dissolving in laughter.

"What are you two laughing about?" Emile and Annie walked into the room.

"Where have you been hiding those two?" Colette wiped tears from her eyes with a tissue. "I love them to death."

"Everyone does. Wait until they have an argument and Louie gets pissed off with Ray. He goes back to his mother's in Brooklyn Heights and sulks for a few weeks."

Everyone dissolved into laughter again.

"And to make matters worse, she's the typical Jewish Momma."

"Oh my God, gay and Jewish. How delightful." Annie clapped her hands in delight.

"You haven't seen the half of it yet." Emile warned them.

"How did you meet them?" Ellie asked.

"How else? I designed their house for them."

"If all your clients are this interesting, life will be a ball." Colette put her head on his shoulder as he protectively placed an arm around her, whilst their approving friends watched and smiled at them.

Chapter 61 – The Hamptons Late October 2006

Colette was idly perusing the Internet, searching out stories from her favorite journalists on the current crises rocking the world. Always researching and taking notes for the next novel she would write.

Now that she had changed her genre and her interests were spreading, she looked for hard hitting articles. One of her favorite freelance journalists who pulled no punches about the truth about the ongoing Palestinian/Israeli conflict, has lived in Beirut for thirty years in the midst of the war and he shared the tragedy of a people he loved and admired, first hand. It broke her heart, as there did not appear to be any willingness to bring it to a successful resolution.

She was beginning to suspect that conflict diamonds funded, in part, the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. The tentacles of this crime against humanity, spread far and wide.

The thread of the story was taking shape in her mind and knew it was not enough to base the story in Africa alone nor make it an action thriller. She wanted to strike at the heart of the crime and reveal the trail behind this inhumane trafficking and the vicious purposes for which the monies were used. That meant she had to take her readers into the world of those directly affected. From the point of origin, to the bloody conflicts these little stones were funding. Expose the festering sores of the bitter legacies left in their wake, by confronting the cancer in their midst.

With her heart in her mouth, she read the reports about the disaffected Palestinians. Many of the children had been born in refugee camps, displaced from their homeland. Others born in their homeland they were unable to call their own. Her eyes filled with tears as she read the reports from aid workers and doctors and nurses in the area. Concerned people, who risked their lives trying to help these benighted people and wanted to tell their stories, which were all disturbingly familiar.

One night after she and Emile had finished their meal and were sitting quietly with animals at their feet, she turned to him.

"Emile, I'm going to Palestine to visit the refugee camps."

He sat up with a start, horrified at the suggestion. "You can't Colette, it's dangerous."

"Emile, you work amongst these people while I live this sheltered and cosseted life. I am feeling so guilty about the money I've spent on this house now. How can I ignore their desperate plight and write about them unless I have seen their lives with my own eyes, breathe the air they breathe, experience their brutal daily lives?"

He stood and began pacing. "I've only just met you, I can't let you go into these conditions. You have no idea what it is like."

"And that is precisely why I must go," she retorted firmly.

He turned, looked at her and tried once more to dissuade her, knowing the danger she would be placing herself in. "Colette, it's enough that you write about it."

"The story will not have legs unless I go." She leaned forward to emphasize her point. "I can't just sit here and read about these atrocities on the Net. This goes further than Sierra Leone and Angola. I can't go there, that's for sure, but there are greater ramifications to this illegal trafficking in diamonds. What are they ultimately being used for?"

"To purchase arms for the government troops and the rebels in order to keep these areas destabilized," he said bitterly. "It's in the interest of the Big Powers and the multinationals so they can pillage these countries' mineral wealth."

"What are the diamonds funding beyond that?" Colette had a fair idea. "How does Israel fund the enormous cost of the ongoing conflict with Palestine?"

"I see what you're getting at." Emile looked at her searchingly. "You will have to tread lightly here Colette. It's not just the merchants of war that you are taking on here."

"I've researched this." Colette's face was determined. "Apart from foreign aid from American, some $53,000,000,000 a year, their second largest industry is in diamonds. Israel buys some fifty percent of the world's rough diamonds. They must surely use this to top up their funding for their costly war."

Emile agreed. "I would think the tax revenue from it would help. They also manufacture weapons and missiles, and compete on the world market for the sale of these in a highly competitive marketplace. Israel Aerospace Industry main focus is aviation and high-tech electronics, it also manufactures military systems for ground an naval forces which they sell to other countries.

"But not to Muslim countries...."

"Definitely not to Muslim countries."

Would they sell to Africans and train troops? The Net seems to believe they do."

"Yes, we have come across them and some of the mercenaries in these countries are ex Israeli army. Their standard of training is very high, so they are in great demand."

Running his hand through his hair in frustration, he knew she would not be dissuaded. "Then I will go with you," he decided.

"You can't," she objected, reaching up to grasp his hands and draw him down beside her. "You've got to get on with your own life."

"You forget my dear, this is part of my life. If you go, I go," he insisted. "It is time I returned."

Colette peered out of the window as the Royal Jordanian plane's taking them from Amman had flown over Syria and was now lining up for the landing. It was early evening and as they descended they passed through a slate gray sky with anvil head clouds, threatening thunder she gave an involuntary shiver.

Beirut had a checkered history. As the 15 year long Lebanese Civil War between the Christian and Muslim factions of the populace had decimated the Paris of the East, as Beirut had been known, it lost its status and the glamour. Its airport was damaged, closed, reopened but subsequently sustained serious damage by Israeli shelling during the 1982 Israeli invasion of Lebanon; and was the site of the 1983 Beirut barracks bombing in which 241 American servicemen were killed.

It embarked on a ten-year reconstruction program to build a new terminal that would have state of the art facilities and be capable of handling 6 million passengers annually with new runways being built to accommodate the large aircraft like the Airbus A380. Using a seaward protrusion to move landing traffic away from the city was a bid to improve safety and reduce aircraft noise. In June 2005 the dream was realized.

Then Israel launched the 2006 Lebanon War, when all three runways of the airport sustained significant damage from missile strikes directed at it by the Israeli Air Force who claimed at the time that Hezbollah had received a weapons shipment there. It opened again to commercial flights on August 17, 2006 and the following month Israel ended its air blockade of Lebanon.

On June 6, 2007, America lifted a ban on air traffic to Lebanon imposed since the 1985 hijacking of TWA Flight 847. An uneasy peace existed between the two countries and Colette and Emile could not help the feeling of trepidation creep over them as the plane descended.

Upon landing, they were met by a doctor with whom he had become friendly and has invited them to stay with him in his apartment. He is keen on the appalling conditions of the camps and the refugees' plight being highlighted once again.

In the morning they were driven in an his SUV to the Shatila refugee camp in the southern suburbs of Beirut, which had been built by ENWAR The United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East in 1949.

Colette was shocked by the state of the crumbling basic structures that five generations of Palestinian refugees had lived in. Some were born there and had known nothing else. Live wires crisscrossed the streets while water lay on the ground below and children walked and played in these dangerous conditions every day.

It was a mess of cramped damp tenements so poorly constructed it was a miracle any of them remained standing. Some, the legacy of Israeli shellings, did not. A maze of alleyways, where the sunlight rarely penetrated, made it dark, murky and unhealthy.

Surrounding the one acre camp, were two high wire fence which armed guards patrolled at night. People made the best of these conditions, but the misery and lack of hope was etched into their faces.

Eyes, old before their time, and those reflecting pain and anguish that belonged to a generation who had lost all they had strived for, followed her progress through the place they could never call home.

Emile's friend pointed out the appalling conditions of the camp.

"The environmental health conditions in Shatila are extremely bad," he told them and pointed out its shortcomings. "Shelters are damp and overcrowded, and as you can see many have open drains. The sewerage system needs is inadequate for the amount of people who live here."

"There's one health care center for everyone. They get sick because of the humidity and the unhygienic conditions as the running water mixes with the sewage and everywhere is polluted. There is not enough to eat. The stench of garbage is all pervading and they die of poverty and malnutrition. Many people have asthma, as it is so humid and unhygienic. The rest of the world does not die of asthma, but in the camps, many people do."

As the overworked doctor showed them around the camp, Colette was she shocked to the core of her being and had never felt so helpless in her life.

"If someone gets sick," doctor continued," they die because there are insufficient medical supplies to treat them with. That costs money that is not available."

"How do they feed their families?" Colette ventured.

"They are very poor," he gave it to her straight, " as their parents, who were also born in the camps, can only get lowly menial jobs that do not pay enough to keep their families. There are camps that don't have electricity, so they have to buy candles. These also do not have water."

Although ENWAR ensured every child in Shatila was educated, a teacher took her aside and showed her the few desk that are not broken that the children crowd around to write if they are able to. "In some camps there are no books for the children them to read and no education to enable them if there were," she said bitterly.

A young boy with enormous brown eyes in a gaunt face said, "I want to live and work in Palestine. We all want to go back home to Palestine. We do not remember what it was like before the Israelis came, as we were born in this camp, but our parents and grandparents tell us stories. Who are we? Where do we belong? We want to belong to Palestine."

It was gut wrenching stuff.

As she listened intently, the children grew bolder and an older boy complained. "We live in a camp with walls to keep us in, but what have we done to deserve being kept prisoners? Our school is overcrowded and we do not learn well. There are not enough desks and many are broken and cannot be used. We study hard, but are told by the teacher we will never be anything but menial laborers. We do not have any books to read other than school books and we must share these.

Then two or three spoke up at the same time. "Our teachers are Lebanese and hate us."

"We are not allowed to speak in school."

"The teachers call us insulting names and will often send us out of class for no reason. They are violent to us and so is the principal."

"The teachers tell us we are good for nothing and will never be anything. Often they tell us to go to work now and accept our lot as menial workers."

Colette felt as though her very senses were under attack, as she tried to imagine their lives, even now she was amongst them. It was beyond comprehension. She compared it with her own comfortable, even luxurious lifestyle and felt mortified at her ignorance.

Having spent two days in Shatila, they moved on to Mieh Mieh, 4 kms south of Sidon, where the conditions were even worse. Some of the shelters were canvas tents and the refugees life was extremely difficult. Water shortages were frequent.

"What do you do for work?" Colette asked some women through the interpreter. "Our men work on construction sites and orchards. We also work in the orchards, or the embroidery workshops; and as cleaners."

Turning to the children, she listened to their woes and shuddered at the thought of their futures.

"We have a small playground which is so crowded we cannot move about and play. Even if we could there is nothing to play with." Brown eyes looked up beseeching her.

"What can I tell them? That the world doesn't care?" Sobbing in Emile's arms night after night, he became concerned at the effect it was having on her. She couldn't eat and was losing weight.

"This is why I did not want you to come. You cannot afford to get survivor's guilt. You'll get ill and you'll be of no use to them." He scolded her gently. "If you want to help them, put on your steel helmet, gird your loins and listen, so you can write about them and open the worlds eyes to their plight. This is not an issue that is in the past, it remains like a festering sore on the backside of the Middle East."

She took his advice and pulled herself together.

"Should we die, because we are Palestinians and have no land because it was taken from us?" the adults ask her, as she met with a lost race without a nationality.

"Why do other countries bother to take us in as refugees, when they despise us and treat us as though we are dirt beneath their feet?"

There was no doubt about the resentment the majority of Lebanese felt for the Palestinians and their refugee camps in their country.

"We don't feel like children." As she looked into adult eyes in children's faces, Colette shrank from their accusations. "What have we done to deserve being treated like this? Why do we have to live like this, but other children in the world do not?"

She had no answer for them.

"In summer these children take menial jobs, which is all anyone will let them do," an aid worker told them.

"We have no future." The embittered people crowded around them, defeated by the life they are forced to live.

"What can I possibly say to them?" Colette asked Emile in despair. "I have asked them to tell me their stories in the hope someone will listen when I write about all this." She gestured to the scene around them which was unlike any in the Western world was familiar with. It was a literal depiction of Dante's Inferno.

Because the majority of the children don't have enough to ear, their growth is stunted and thirteen year olds look as though they are eight.

The children tell them, "I want to play, not work."

There was a common thread running through many of the stories.

"I am Mahmoud. I am thirteen years old and have been working since I was eight years old because my family needs the money. I go to school for four hours a day and then I go to work. I work all summer and during the holidays in winter. I am tired and have no hope for the future. The only jobs we Palestinian refugees are allowed to work at are menial lowly paid jobs and this is my future.

When I am working, I see other children playing and I wish so much I was one of them."

Now she was in their world and could see the truth of this for most of them.

The aid worker with them sighed deeply. "I hear the same story in all the camps I visit. Sometimes I wonder at the depth of man's inhumanity to children."

She spoke with people who had lived through the Shatila massacre of 1982, carried out in reprisal for the assassination of Bashir Gemayel, the leader of the Phalangists who was massacred and his follower wrongly blamed the Palestinians.

Lines of text ran through Colette's mind and she would go back to the apartment of Emile's friend, where they were staying, and capture them on her laptop which she had brought with her. She could rework them later.

The children of Palestine crave a life, an education and the right to better themselves. Their parents, often uneducated themselves, have the same dreams as western parents, that their children better themselves. They make many sacrifices in their difficult lives to obtain an education for their children. They are met with resistance.

Unless the children stop demanding an end to the occupation of their homeland and cease throwing stones at the soldiers, who have guns to retaliate, schools will be closed and books withheld from them, until they accept the curfews and submit. The parents are branded terrorists if they seek alternative ways to educate their children. This is a violation of human rights and the children declare they will continue, until they achieve both an education and their freedom.

This in fact, is how terrorists are born.

Large brown eyes look up at me in bewilderment. I feel their frustration and rage at the loss of hope for the future; and I feel their determination to fight until freedom is restored to them.

This is how terrorists are born.

Why does the United States help Israel? To deny them these basic human rights, which is the right of every American child under their Constitution? This is a violation of human rights.

This is how terrorists are born.

These children are bright, they eagerly absorb everything they learn and know much about the outside world, which seems like paradise to them. They deserve an education. They have no time for peer pressure, to harass their parents for the latest designer kids clothes, the latest Barbie doll or Harry Potter books, movies and games. They simply want the right to education and their freedom from occupation of their homeland, but have known nothing else in their short lives.

"Education is freedom for us," they declare, knowing this is the most powerful weapon in their pathetic arsenal.

"This is why the Israelis do not want us to learn." Somehow the odd book is smuggled in, a brave teacher will gather a flock around her in secret and they continue to read and learn. It is dangerous for them to do so, they will be branded terrorists if they are caught. Yet they will not submit, they will continue to resist until they have freedom and an education.

The children of Palestine are bitter and seek answers to their plight. I have none to give them and I feel so ashamed. What bitter legacy have we imposed on them?"

She interviewed journalists and aid workers and would frequently speak to nurses in refugee camps inside Palestine. Again, their stories were disturbingly similar. "There are soldiers in all of the alleyways and tanks at every entrance and exit to the camps. The soldiers have taken over many buildings, and there is a blanket curfew. They are so brutal they will even attack ambulances bringing sick people to the clinic."

"They bring in children who have been shot by the soldiers, for no reason whatsoever. Under attack by armored vehicles parked on the outskirts of villages and towns, people cannot get near them to take them into a house, or bring them to hospital, as the soldiers keep shooting at anyone who tries to help them. Many children are shot and maimed, some lose limbs. Some are shot in the head and die. They are lucky, others live somehow and will be mentally impaired for life. They will never play again. And who will look after them?"

"Some of them are simply trying to get to work, now they are going nowhere. Some of them are little children who would go with their parents to get food or help. Now they are going nowhere. Some of them played sports, but now paralysed from a bullet lodged in their spine, they will never play again. What is their life to be now?

"We cannot carry out heart surgery when the bullet lodges near the heart," a doctor told her. "We try our best, but we know they will not live.There is no time to cry over these children, even though their parents hearts are breaking."

"These people live with fear. They are afraid to stay in their houses as they are being shelled; and they are afraid to go out on to the streets. My heart is angry. I hear of Palestinian doctors who become suicide bombers and I understand why," One doctor declared.

Colette shook her head sadly. Why did two tribes, both born of Abraham their common Patriarch, fight to death over one of the most inhospitable areas in the world? There are lush fertile valleys that men own and others covet. Surely this is against their God's third commandment? Is not the land, the wife of another man.

This was a family argument that had been going on for 6000 years. Surely it was time to put it to rest.

As she flew out of the Middle East, she reflected on the difference between their existence, for that is all it was; and that of the Western countries.

When Colette returned to America, she looked around her luxurious home, then bowed her head and wept at how much she had and how little these displaced people had.

"The contrast between their lives and mine couldn't be greater. My absorption with the house seems so trivial," she berated herself, while Emile held her.

"You cannot go there Colette, otherwise you will drive yourself crazy."

She wiped her eyes and sat down before her computer to write her book about Blood Diamonds.

Chapter 62 – Another Palestinian's life in the Twenty First Century

Suhayb must venture out into the dangerous streets to look for work. He has his blue Gaza Strip resident card in his bag, which also carried his work clothes. Nervously he looks around as there are always Israeli soldiers patrolling the city. It was mid morning as he had travelled to reach an area he had been told he could find some work.

Hearing the sound of a jeep, he nervously tries to make himself inconspicuous. It pulls up beside him.

"Come over here and hand over your identity card." One of the Israeli border guards calls.

Hesitantly Suhayb takes the card out of his bag and approaches the jeep, praying to Allah to protect him, and hands it to the man who called to him. Without bothering to look at the card, the guard looks at Suhayb with cold eyes.

"You dirty stone-throwing Gazan," he snarled.

Suhayb drew back, his heart pounding in his chest. "Oh help me Allah, help me please."

"Get in the fucking jeep you arsehole." He was ordered.

"Please." He drew back. "Do not hurt me, I am just looking for work. My family needs the money."

"Fuck your family and your she goat of a mother. What makes you think we want you to live? We would rather see you all die than let you work to feed yourselves."

Three of the guards got out of the jeep and Suhayb was really frightened by this time. What would they do to him? He had seen so many people crippled and killed. Was this the time Allah would call him to his side?

"Get in the fucking car you dirty son of a hamir." (donkey), the most despised creature of the Arab world, and the three of them continued to insult him in the most degrading manner, whilst they forced him into the back of the vehicle.

He was forced to crouch with his head wedged between the two front seats and the spare tire in the back of the jeep jammed into his groin. Then the three of them got into the back with Suhayb and proceeded to beat him mercilessly. First with their heavy leather steel-toed boots and the pain began as his ribs were broken. They continued to beat him as they drove around, until all time was lost in a haze of pain. Finally they stopped and threw him out of the jeep. Suhayb landed face down. Painfully raising his head, he could not recognise the place.

Then he heard their boots coming towards him again. Turning his head hurt but he had to know what was going to happen to him. Before he could draw a breath, they were on him with clubs. "Oh Allah, help me," he begged silently, before he began to scream in earnest, as they belabored his entire thin small body with as much force as they could. Suhayb felt something snap in his spine and he desperately turned over to prevent the blows to his back. They kicked him in the ribs again and beat him on his stomach and face until he soiled himself. It was too painful to take, so he squirmed back onto his stomach. His mother's face floated before him and he cried out to her before he thankfully lost consciousness. He did not feel the kick in the head. Suhayb is sixteen years old.

When consciousness returned, he wished it had not, the pain was so great, he could hardly breathe and he lay whimpering on the ground. He did not know where he was and his eyes could not focus properly. Cautiously he tried to move, but found he couldn't. "What will become of me?" he thought and as his eyes focused more, he saw his treasured identify card thrown on the ground. How long he lay there he did not know, in and out of consciousness.

"What is the matter my son?" A trembling voice queried and a gentle hand was placed on his shoulder.

Peering through the haze, he saw a very elderly man looking at him with concern.

"Please tell me where I am, Israeli soldiers beat me."

Tears started in the old man's eyes and he explained to Suhayb where he was.

"My uncle lives nearly. Please go and fetch him to help me."

"Of course, of course. What is his name and where do I go?" He clucked his tongue when he saw the extent of Suhayb's injuries and wondered whether he would live. "Oh Allah, there will be no young ones left in our race soon." He thought.

Some time later, Suhayb's Uncle Rafif arrived with some friends.

"In Allah's' name Suhayb, we have to get you to the hospital."

As gently as they tried to carry him, the pain was so great, Suhayb passed out again. They carried him to Rafif"s home and laid him down gently. By now Suhayb was not responding to any spoken word. They called the ambulance and took him to the Israeli hospital in the zone. He was left in the corridor for eight hours and never regained consciousness. He died from a broken spleen and a brain haemorrhage.

Chapter 63 – And What of the People of Israel

Israel is a divided land. Beneath the cacophony of war drums beating out the dance of death and destruction, there are voices of protest. Dissension exists amongst the tribes of Israel, pitting brother against brother, friend against friend.

Incredibly brave feminist groups inside Israel work towards peace between their country and its Arab neighbors. Bat Shalom, Open House and Women in Black.

Yitzhak Frankenthal, an Israeli whose son was killed by Hamas terrorists in 1994, and now heads a group of Israelis and Palestinians whose children have been killed in the civil war, states:

"It is unethical to kill innocent Israeli or Palestinian women or children. It is also unethical to control another nation and to lead it to lose its humaneness."

David, the warrior king is quoted as loathing unnecessary bloodshed. This poses the question. What defines necessary bloodshed? Coveting another man's wife and sending him onto the battlefield to certain death?

After five hundred years of rules by Judges, Saul the first King of the Israelites was bloodthirsty in his reign.

The rabbis quarrel amongst themselves, justifying their opposite stances with quotations from the Torah.

"These are not the teachings of Judaism as passed down to us by the Patriarch, Abraham. Read your Torah and do not be used by those who twist our forefather's words in seeking power for their own glory. It is against Judaism to slay the innocent."

"So Saul took the kingdom over Israel, and fought against all his enemies on every side, against Moab, and against the children of Ammon, and against Edom, and against the kings of Zobah, and against the Philistines: and whithersoever he turned himself, he vexed them. And he gathered an host, and smote the Amalekites, and delivered Israel out of the hands of them that spoiled them. (1 Sam. 14:47–48)

Reuven and his brother Micah were as different in their outlook about protecting Ersatz Israel as though they were not of the same blood.

In Micah's DNA, the warrior was full and strong.

In Reuven's DNA, the genes had taken another route.

He is a Refusenik, a movement named after the Jews whom Russia denied the right to emigrate to Israel. One of a group of conscripted soldiers who had grown weary of killing innocent Palestinians, destroying their villages, their means of livelihood and seeing them thrown on the rubbish tip of life as human refuse, creating a deep hatred that was left to fester until in some cases it flared fiercely as a martyr's revenge in a suicide bomber.

This growing number of Israeli soldiers who refuse orders on moral grounds are arrested, detained and tried in a military court, denied the right to legal representation in trials often lasting no more than ten minutes and generally resulting in sentences lasting around 30 days in prison. They are then given the option of reporting for duty. If they continue to refuse, the process repeats itself and can lead to years of serial prison sentences.

Joining them are young conscientious objectors. The military fuck with their lives by denying them the education they are entitled to, jobs.

Their families and friends turn their backs on them. Even the local shopkeepers shun them.

Reuven himself, had served a total of six months in a military prison. Like all Refuseniks, he believes in his country, but not in its actions beyond its borders. His brother Micah, is the commanding officer of a battalion of soldiers who believed wholeheartedly in their country's manifesto. The brothers were having a familiar argument which went nowhere and ended in heartache for both of them as they loved each other dearly. Brothers torn apart by the ongoing war to defend Ersatz Israel.

"Before the division of Kingdom of Israel, we were a great warrior race." Angrily Micah stubbed out his cigarette in the tin lid that served as an ashtray on the small coffee table. We are just returning to our roots, before we became the Wandering Jew without a homeland."

"It's wrong to keep killing Palestinians when we could broker peace."

"Hah, how can we broker peace with that asshole Arafat tearing down every proposition."

"You can find any excuse to go on killing can't you?" Reuven said gently. He loved his brother but their political views were poles apart.

Micah turned to him, a tortured look on his face. "But to become a Refusenik. How could you do this to our family?"

Their father had risen to the rank of Aluf (Major General) in the Golani Brigade which is associated with the Northern Command, responsible for the regional units from Mt Hermon in the Israel-occupied Golan Heights, to Netanya, with a significant presence in the Galilee and the Golan Heights. He followed in his father's footsteps. Their grandfather had fought in the Golani Brigade at the inception of the State of Israel.

There was a knock on the door of Reuven's apartment.

Micah stood and the brothers embraced.

Reuven said. "I love your dearly."

"I know," his brother said gruffly trying to hold back the tears that started in his eyes. He hated this difference of opinion that had driven his brother and he apart. As the eldest, he had protected Reuven through their childhood and it went against his nature, to abandon him to his misguided chosen plight.

"Lekh beshalom – (go in peace)." Reuven wished his brother, as the sorrow shone back in his eyes.

Micah looked at him cynically as he responded. "We cannot lose the Promised Land, no matter what it takes."

They walked to the door together and Reuven opened it, watching sadly as his brother departed, ignoring the two Refuseniks waiting on the stoop while raising his hand in a gesture of farewell without turning to face his brother, intent on carrying out his duties to defend Israel.

As Reuven beckoned to the woman and man standing at the door waiting to enter, he turned and led the way inside.

"Coffee?" he offered and when they nodded, he busied himself preparing it.

Despondency hung in the air like an uninvited guest.

Placing the coffees in front of his friends, he lit a cigarette, sat down in one of the armchairs and leaning back drew in heavily, feeling the nicotine hit his adrenalin system.

"How's it going?" his friend Eilam inquired.

"Not so good."

"Your brother still giving you grief over your stance against the war?"

"Afraid so."

"God, it's hard when our political choices affect our family relationships."

"Tell me about it." Reuven was downcast enough about the situation without being reminded of it.

"We can't give up."

"It's tough, but we're Refuseniks and we knew it would be." The pain of rejection by a society that prided itself on the moral support they gave each other, showed in the dark circles under their eyes, their pinched mouths and guarded eyes.

"Did we ever fully grasp the huge personal cost we would pay for our decision?" Naomi asked them.

"I'm sure we did," Eilam affirmed. "After worrying it to death like a hungry dog with a bone."

"We've stepped outside our comfort zone now." She gnawed at a hangnail on her index finger.

"It's difficult to survive when our income has been impacted. No-one wants to employ you if you don't agree with the Government's manifesto."

With this social stigma attached to them, they live an isolated, lonely existence, relying on each other. Therefore, it takes immense courage to be a Refusenik, proving themselves willing to pay this price as they hope it will help save Israel from itself.

"I need to find work. I'm teetering on the edge." Eilam said, as he worried a thin piece of leather between his fingers. "My family's going to be on the breadline if I don't get something soon. Amit can't keep supporting us forever and there is a chance she will lose her job for remaining with me."

"That's blackmail. What about your family?" Reuven knew the answer even as he asked the question and thanked God that despite his own family being behind the government's manifesto, they had not denied him.

"They don't want to know me."

"And their grandchildren?"

"They see them. Amit takes them."

"How can they let them suffer?"

"They have themselves to think about. We don't want the entire family losing their livelihood."

"It's tough on the kids." Reuven took a long drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in the tin lid.

Eilam shook his head and frowned. "They have to deal with this at school and their friends are disappearing fast. Their life has become hell."

"We have to stay strong if we want the children of Israel to escape from this cycle of destruction and despair." Reuven tried to bolster his two friends, while feeling defeated himself. The world he had known since childhood had turned on him. His wife had left him when he had refused to serve in the occupation and had spent three months in a military prison. Thankfully there were no children to be caught in the middle of their parent's different ideologies.

"Is it worth it?" Naomi looked at them both. Jewish ties with family go deep and hers was so exception. Now they were divided in their beliefs, she felt so isolated. " We're social outcasts."

"This is a personal decision that most of us made knowing what the consequences would be." Reuven stared off into space, ruminating on how unpleasant life had become since he had taken his stance. Without the support of his family, he would be unable to survive.

"Gone are my chances of becoming a Professor at the University of Tel Aviv." Eilam bemoaned. "It was all I ever wanted."

Naomi and Reuven remained silent, what could they say in the face of Eilam's disappointment.

"Our stance has led to several organisation with the same goals now existing in Israel." Reuven recalled what it had been like when the Refuseniks were standing alone against their country's military fervor.

That hadn't stopped the Government incarcerating in a military prison, Senior High school students who had signed a letter to the Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, declaring they would refuse to be soldiers of the occupation. Others enlisted and refused to go beyond the green line.

Eilam said bitterly. "We don't live in a country with an army, it's an army with a country." This had become a commonplace saying in Israel.

This evoked sighs from the other two and they all remained silent until Eilam spoke again.

"I couldn't take part in what I viewed as a crime against humanity. I drew the line against ejecting Palestinians from the West Bank. I was prepared to such do my reservist duty wherever and whenever I was summoned, but I refused to serve in the occupied territories."

"The number of young people who are refusing is growing and they are going on tours throughout America and South Africa." Reuven pointed out. "This is giving us a profile overseas, so they are aware that not all Israeli's are killers, which is how the world views us."

Naomi still looked gloomy as she commented. "The world simply doesn't understand how the children of the victims of the holocaust can take part in the annihilation of another race. I feel so alone sometimes," she confirmed, as tears started in her eyes.

"I explain to everyone that the Government's policy of aggression is in moral conflict with our belief in Judaism and we are unable to come to terms with this. I point out the Torah itself is our basis for refusal, but they refuse to listen." Eilam leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands. He really didn't know how much longer he could hold out, with the cost to his family being so high.

"Why can't they see that the Palestinian counter-violence is a result of our country's immoral policy of violence against them?" Reuven shook his head in dismay. "Only by remaining united will we find the strength to stand up to this unjust edict."

They all hung their heads and thought of the personal cost to each one of them.

"The consistent violence against and repression of the Palestinians over the past seventy years, is abhorrent. Surely our own Jewish history of the pogroms we suffered for centuries should deter such actions."

"This has been discussed amongst our band of brothers and whilst it is the consensus of opinion," Eilam said. "These pogroms are etched into people's minds, along with the Holocaust and our race feel they simply cannot allow this to happen again.

"So we behave in the same manner towards others?"

"This is what many people in the world are accusing us of. We have to let them know not all Israelis share the Government's views. We have to continue to resist before the State of Israel self-destructs."

"Can't the majority of Israelis, including our families, see that if they take part in the occupation and fighting, this will surely turn back on us as we leave the Palestinians with no choice than to retaliate."

"Their daily existence has become so intolerable, they are willing to sacrifice themselves as martyrs in a cry to the world for hope and that's the action of people with no hope."

"Many of us are Refuseniks because we come from villages that have been attacked by Palestinians in retaliation of the attacks on their homeland. Our Government knows our own villages will suffer and yet they hold fast to this stupid situation. "How cynical and callous is that?"

"Israelis refuse to look at this with eyes wide open. They find it easier to blame others for a calamity that has nothing to do with a defensive war as the State claims. "

"It's an archaic policy, how can the Government expect Israelis, both men and women, as soldiers or citizens, to sacrifice their lives for the sake of territory. It's like the old feudal wars."

"It's undemocratic and has no dignity, let alone a future."

"The world is turning against us now as we continue pursuing this strategy."

"We are dancing to the tune of the Western big powers, who do not want to lost their foothold in their Middle East, nor the oil it produces."

Naomi sighed. "Without their support and foreign aid, Israel would find it difficult to exist."

"That's not a good enough reason to commit genocide, for that is what it is. Are we not all the descendants of Abraham or Ibrahim as the Muslims call him."

They pondered on this statement for a moment.

"We know that many Israeli soldiers wrestle with their consciences, but we are such a patriotic country, that it has been hammered into us that we must support the State in every way.

"None of us want to become the Wandering Jew in search of a home again. 4,000 years was long enough, but it has been achieved at the expense of others."

"Times are changing." Naomi took her time lighting a cigarette before continuing.

Eilam nodded in agreement. "They still sign up full of patriotic fervor to serve in the units as reservists, happy to go off to fight for their country, but the atrocities they see and are asked to take part in bombard their souls."

"They know its wrong, that in reality it is not the way to obtain and protect a secure home for Jews."

"It's the zealots in the settlements that use us to keep ordinary Palestinians in a state of misery."

"Then we're accused of betrayal when we refuse to carry out these orders."

"But we know in our hearts, this is against the basic values and goals of Zionism which preaches democracy. Occupation of another people's lands is not democratic."

"It's not as though we would refuse to serve if the Government was committed to withdrawing from the territories and established a fortified Israeli border, which we would be happy to guard."

"If a war broke out that threatened our country, we will perform our duty for our country."

"I don't think we'll get the chance if the Iranians nuke us." Naomi said.

Eilam put his head in his hands. "I prayed the missiles would miss when I ordered my squadron to fire anti-tank missiles on to dilapidated plaster and mud-brick houses of the Palestinians when my commanders ordered me to. I knew they were not terrorist bases in refugee camps."

"I couldn't stand guard in the prison camps filled with people who did not deserve to be there," Reuven said miserably.

Eilam continued. "When I saw the destruction this had caused, I could not live with what I had done, nor myself." He choked back sobs as the memories that haunted him to this day rose to the surface again. "I couldn't do this any longer. I couldn't inflict such misery on those people, killing helpless people for the sake of it. It was stupid, no wonder they become suicide bombers. I would have done the same in their place. I was dying inside. I still can't sleep. I have nightmares."

Reuven walked over to him and put his arm around his friend. "We know and we want to help you carry the burden. We all have to help each other live with what we were forced to do, until we could do it no longer."

Eilam raised his head and the tears streamed down his face. "We shelled the refugee camp for four days and when we entered and searched for terrorists, I was appalled at what we had done to these people who were afraid of us and I had to respect them for their defiance."

"I couldn't continue to shoot at them. I couldn't. These people were ordinary citizens, they had no weapons. I looked around and saw our bulldozers destroying huge parts of the camp.

Houses without walls or roofs, not one house intact, with great holes in them. Rubble everywhere. People couldn't leave, there was nowhere for them to go. Wherever they came from had been destroyed and I felt I had created hell on earth!"

Naomi and Reuven looked at each other. Naomi had served in the Caracal Battalion where women engaged in combat with the enemy. They both still had flashbacks of attacks they had been involved in, as did many of the Refuseniks.

"I have friends who are still on active duty who feel like me, but they are not as brave as the Refuseniks. They know that to refuse to fight in the Israeli society, means your life in Israel will be finished. I know my life is over, but I couldn't do it any more and so I joined you, knowing I would have to take the consequences."

"Our Government doesn't tell the truth to the world, and the world knows this," Reuven had joined in conversations like this countless times. It was as though they had to repeat their stories in order to stay strong. Rake up the terrible memories and relive them, so they would not perpetrate such horrors again. "They claim they only destroy the houses of terrorists, but I saw too many dead bodies of civilians in the refugee camps." A shudder went through his body as he mind recalled the atrocities.

"And what of our comrades who carry Shimon's legacy to them. Post traumatic syndrome that will haunt them until their dying days."

Such atrocities created a cause and that in turn spawned a fundamentalist arm Islamic Jihad movement.

"It's time."

The young man with the bomb strapped to his body, was twenty six years of age and could see no future for himself, so he was willing to become a martyr.

His parents had given him their blessing and wept as they released their son.

His wife and two children had pleaded with him to remain with them, but he kissed and blessed them, then turned them over to his family to look after, as his own had died when he had been interred in a prison camp.

The Jihadists strapped the explosive to Salah's body, dressing him in the garments of an ultra-orthodox Jew. They blessed him and gave him his instructions.

Kneeling on his prayer mat, he bowed to Mecca, stood and proudly declared, "I am Allah's weapon, taking revenge for the atrocities that have been committed against my people. "Inshallah (God Willing)."

They drove him close to Ben Gurion Boulevard and dropped him off. From there he proceeded on foot to one of the largest cafes, which he entered and triggered the explosive, crying Allahu Akbar (Allah is Greater) and went to meet his maker, fulfilling the commitment he had made in the prison camp nine months previously.

The blast shattered the windows of the café and those surrounding it, as well as the Israelis, tourists and Palestinian Arabs who were all sitting drinking coffee and eating. Arabs and Israelis alike rushed to the scene. There was no need to die to go to hell, for here it was on earth. People were screaming and crying, blood had sprayed on the living and the dead. Body parts lay strewn around the dead and injured and their blood pooled on the ground.

Israeli and Palestinian families grieved and buried their dead. Foreigners arrived and retrieved their own, taking them back to their homeland to lay what was left of them to rest, or face the rest of their life crippled, physically, mentally and emotionally.

Israel mourned once again. The world was outraged. Retaliation was planned and the carnage continued.

Chapter 64 – Monaco Red Cross Ball 2003

Synonymous with diamonds, is the Red Cross Ball in Monaco every August.

The Monegasque royal family welcomed the cream of European society to Monte Carlo on Saturday for the 2003 Red Cross Ball under the Presidency of HSH Prince Albert II.

The proceeds of the charitable event benefited A.M.A.D Mondiale, which was founded in 1963 by Princess Grace of Monaco and is based in Monaco. The non-profit organization, chaired since 1993 by H.R.H. The Princess of Hanover, seeks to promote and protect children's rights on an international level; it develops and supports humanitarian aid programmes around the globe, and fosters ethical and legal reflection in the domain of the rights of the child.

But that couldn't stop the throng of glittering guests from enjoying an evening to remember. One of the world's most prestigious parties, the ball is held annually at the luxurious Salle des Étoiles of the Monaco Sporting d'Eté Club.

At $1000 a head, which did not include beverages, it rivalled the White House dinner prices.

Strobe lights flashed and large video screens set up around the room, captured Shirley Bassey as she sang Diamonds are forever for the crowd. Luminaries, such as former 007 star Roger Moore and the iconic French actress Catherine Deneuve turned out with the who's who of society figures.

Ivana Trump, looking as glamorous as ever with a diamond choker at her throat, diamonds at her ears, and diamonds on her wrists and hands, turned up with her handsome young husband in tow. Gina Lollobrigida, dripping diamonds at seventy nine years of age, was wheeled out of retirement clad in gold from head to foot, leaning on the arm of her forty something husband. The ever so suave and cool Karl Lagerfeld, a stalwart of the event, was there as usual.

Princess Caroline, wore an elegant, low cut black dress, with emerald drop earrings, surrounded by diamonds.

Princess Stephanie was noticeable by her absence.

The thousand guests assembled for cocktails in the lobby of the Hotel de Paris before heading to the Salles des Etoiles at the Sporting Club for the Ball.

In the front of the Belle Epoque style establishment, highly polished Rolls Royces, Bentleys and Jaguars cozy up to gleaming Ferraris, Lamborghinis Alfas, Maseratis and Aston Martins, announcing the arrival of the glitterati.

A constant stream of poseurs, twirled and spun as they entered through the front doors, hoping to capture the paparazzo's attention to ensure their photograph appeared in the next edition of the important gossip magazines.

Following the color scheme for the International Red Cross, of a red cross on a white background, gleaming white tablecloths were set off by red crosses around bottles of water and the red covered chairs.

The elegant menu, which the women largely avoided, consisted of Iranian caviar, langoustines, poulardes, cepes, artichokes, and foie gras, not to mention a glorious Monegasque dessert. The men had no such reservations of course.

The star-studded audience, whose personal stylists worked extremely hard to ensure their celebrity shone above all others, was treated to a special one-hour performance by Lord of the Dance star. Michael Flatley had been coaxed out of retirement to knock 'em dead with his nimble footwork, bringing some of his best dancers to beat out Irish jigs.

It was well worth Michael's making the trip, as he was delighted when His Serene Highness Prince Albert presented him with a medal given to special guests, created in 1997 for the celebration of 700 years of the principality. Sort of like the gong the English dealt out to its businessmen and politicians who had lobbied for a Knighthood, ostensibly for services rendered to the Crown. Ignored by the English establishment it was a feather in Flatley's cap, and well deserved for the creativity and enthusiasm he brought to the stage performances.

The performance was followed by the roof of the Sporting Club opening up to the evening sky and stars over the Mediterranean, for a spectacular fireworks display. A literal explosion of colors and sparkles illuminated the tiny Principality.

There had been fireworks at the Palace prior to the event, as Princess Stephanie had elected to miss the gala evening and travel to Switzerland to be with her acrobat boyfriend, against the family wishes. There was also the odd firework amongst the international celebrities as they vied for position amongst the display of couture ball gowns that knocked the eyes out of your head.

The glamorous women twirling in the arms of movie icons and millionaires, would, not of course, touch the food. They would dine on champagne and cigarettes instead, to feed their obsession with remaining rake thin. It was far more important; to photograph well on the society pages they raked over after each event, even if it left many of them looking emaciated in everyday life. Otherwise they would be ripped to shreds by the fashion doyens of the magazines and jealous rivals.

Arkadiy had decided to move up in the world and at the invitation of his actor friend with whom he had dallied previously in Monte Carlo, attended the glittering event. Not one for marriage, he spread his favors around and had recently scored an ambitious French actress he had met in Cannes in May at the film festival where her latest movie had shown and been received very well. She was a definite asset to lift his profile with the Euro trash and he had rewarded her accordingly with diamonds, which she proudly displayed. The diamond drop earrings, with matching pendant around her throat and as it was an important moment for Arkadiy, he had splashed out on a bracelet for her slender wrist as well. He stopped short at a ring, not wanting the gesture to be misunderstood by the actress, or the elite social group, even though their romance had been constant since they had met.

Envious eyes were drawn to the handsome couple as they twirled and spun around the dance floor, swooping in a tango at which Arkadiy was very adept. Ever the showman, it was time to be noticed in Europe now he had purchased the obligatory villa in the South of France, which allowed him to escape the horrendously cold winters in Russia. The diamonds that paid for his services to thugs in Africa, were the symbol of his success. How brilliantly she displayed them, as he basked in his glory days.

In Sub-Saharan Africa, the diseased, mutilated and starving children toiled away, desperately searching for food and endeavoring to survive the privations of their appalling legacies.

Founded in 1963 by the late Princess Grace of Monaco, and presided since 1993 by H.R.H. The Princess of Hanover, AMADE Mondiale (World association of children's friends) is an internationally recognized NGO that seeks the promotion and protection of children"s rights, wherever they are morally or physically in danger.

Headquartered in Monaco, AMADE counts more than 20 branches across the globe operating humanitarian aid programs, mostly concerned, in developing countries, with poverty, malnutrition and the need for education.

At the international level, AMADE campaigns to fight the commercial sexual exploitation of children on the internet and brings legal action against the perpetrators of those acts. The association also started a campaign to the U.N. for the qualification of the most serious crimes against children, as crimes against humanity.

Chapter 65 – The Hamptons October 2006

An unusual day for early autumn was in full cry. The rain beat against the house like all the furies had been released from hell together, lashing the windows like a mad monk flagellating himself, smashing the few remaining rose blooms and everything in its path. The winds tossed the trees and shrubs around and the petals of the roses were scattered all over the ground as it moaned around the house like a restless ghost.

The lighter branches of the maple trees were tossing around like a skittish racehorse unwilling to enter the starting box. Leaves swirled around by the strong wind, sought refuge in the stoop of the front porch and under the eaves.

Colette stood at the window of the living room and wondered at the fury of the storm. Global warming was producing unseasonable and strange weather worldwide. Oh well, the greenies had tried to warm them forty years ago and no-one would listen. Now they were paying the penalty. The house was weeping at being battered around and she could hear the trickle of water in the gutters, gathering momentum, then speeding through the down pipes to release into the drainage system. In some strange way it was a soothing sound, despite the rage of the storm.

'Would the sea rise up one day and reclaim Long Island to its depths?' she wondered. 'Perhaps it would return to the marshes from whence it had risen. Perhaps they all would.' Feeling chilled, she turned and went into the parlor to pick up a long cashmere cardigan. Slipping it on, she belted it around her waist, snuggling into its warmth.

Basil was lashing out at her unable to let go. Determined to break her, scatter her to the fury of the storm, but damned if she would let an inbred psychopath take her down.

This was her refuge and Emile was part of it. Wrapping her arms around herself, she reined her emotions in tightly.

The world blurred around her as her mind shut down. Enough was enough.

It was time to get serious about the next novel and prepare the outline. As harrowing as the experience had been to develop the background on the diamond broker and the effect on Palestine, it was time to build the legend for the Russian arms merchant.

In order to do that, she had to dive into the world he was manipulating. Switching on her laptop, she waited for it to warm up, then pulled up Google and typed in Blood Diamonds – children.

The lists of websites were many and varied. Photographs of the practices left her feeling sickened. Visions of children working deep underground in mines under the most appalling situations, made her heart bleed.

Aghast she read of the child soldiers and their abduction. How they were drugged, beaten into submission and the atrocities they were forced to perpetrate. The alternative had been to suffer the same fate as the horrors they forced onto their fellow countrymen. Beheadings, chopping off hands, feet, limbs, placing them on tree trunk and logs to subdue others.

"Why do they chop off your hands?" they had asked the victims.

"They told us it is so we cannot vote."

The RUF had started cutting the hands off civilians as a symbolic way to prevent them voting.

"and also we cannot gather in the cassava, vegetables and rice crops, to feed ourselves."

"So they do not care if you starve?"

"No. They say we would feed the government army who is seeking them."

"And your feet?"

"So we cannot work, or walk, or run. In case we join the army against them." The victims appeared resigned to their fate, despite the anger and bitterness they felt.

A chill settled around her mind and body and she could not warm herself. The more she read the worse it became.

If she was going to write about this tragedy, it was time to immerse herself in this tragedy, become one with it, so she could write about it. Bending her head, lips moving as she read on, a heaviness seemed to settle around her.

For days she labored, dismayed, as she teased the storyline out. Revolted by the truth, it seemed to seep into her very bones and she forgot to eat, falling into bed at night distressed and exhausted.

Emile became concerned about her. "You must eat. How can you help these children if you become sick and cannot write about them?" Desperately, he tried to reason with her.

Turning her large emerald green eyes to him, he read the dismay and horror she was experiencing. "I'm sorry, you're right." She whispered and began to force food down.

At night he would hold her tight, trying to warm her cold body. The more she read and wrote, the more she watched the videos, the deeper they dug into her heart and soul and chilled her to the bone. Absorbed in the storyline, she pushed herself relentlessly, chronicling, trying to understand, to feel what they would feel, which was impossible. Tormenting herself in an effort to understand how men could perpetrate such trauma upon their fellowmen; and failing.

It tore her up that all she could do would be to write about it, bring it to life that people would become aware of this tragedy of such proportions it was beyond understanding.

She struggled with her belief in reincarnation and karma, unable to come to terms with innocent children having committed such horrendous acts in past lives, that they were subjected

to atrocities beyond belief in this. Children left to raise themselves and siblings at a young age, when their parents had died of AIDS.

Emile knew he could do no more than support her.

"One random barbaric life, such as these, makes no sense to me Emile. If this is the truth, then these people have done nothing in this lifetime to deserve such hell on earth." Turning it over and over in her mind, she eschewed the obvious. The accepted.

"I don't know darling," Emile would respond and rubbing his fingers through his hair, shake his head.

"No, it makes no sense. My God, the icon Christians worship, couldn't even save himself. How can he possibly save anyone else." Colette was angry.

Tentatively Emile ventured a piece of dogma. "It was to absolve people of their sins."

"Well, I've got a hard job accepting that. I believe the church powers created the idea of sin to control the masses. The world is chaotic and evil continues unchecked. And don't give me any of that Satan business either." Turning to Emile, she wagged a finger.

Emile put his hands up between them. "I give up."

"I'm sorry. This is affecting me very deeply and I do tend to get a bit obsessive." At this point, she felt unable to share her beliefs with Emile. It was early days.

"You're fine with me," he responded gently. I love the fact this has gone to your heart, but I don't want it to eat away at you and destroy you."

"That won't happen, I'm stronger than that." She sighed, putting a hand to her brow. "Like everyone else, I'm looking for a reason for this life and like everyone else I'm coming up empty."

"You'll work it out Colette, trust me. I know you now."

"The only possible explanation is a life lived before. One that needs to be absolved. Even then I find it hard to accept such unmitigating horror." Hugging herself, arms tightly wound around her midriff, she would rock back and forth for comfort.

"Colette. You shouldn't be doing this." Emile begged her. "Please walk away from it."

"No, I can't do that. Look at my cushy life and look at theirs. I'll never wear a diamond again." A look of pure disgust passed across her face. Emile's heart missed a beat. This was not in his future plans for them.

"I certainly don't want to wear Basil's and I have never been one for wearing numerous rings on my hands." Spreading her hands, she looked at them in dismay. "Both engagement and wedding rings were aquamarines, but I don't feel any better about them. I'll give them away."

"I've got a diamond pendant and some earrings. They can go as well." Colette was determined to shed herself of gemstones now. "They're completely unnecessary. I have a new way of life now, one that doesn't require ornamentation." Running her fingers through her hair, she shook her head as though to rid herself of the connotations gemstones held today. "I'll give them to Sothebys to sell, then the proceeds can go to the Salvation Army with the proviso the proceeds specifically go to help these people. They will be active in this field."

Having made this decision, she felt a little better, but knew that when the time came to get inside the skin of the diamond broker and the arms merchant, it was going to be very difficult. She had no idea how they were able to live with themselves.

Finally, the outline had been pulled together. "I have to walk away from it for now Emile. The publishers need me in one piece to launch the latest book."

"Thank God for that." He let out the breath he had been holding for so long and relaxed for the first time in a month.

"I'll put it to one side for now. I promised you I would do this and I will. Would you like to read the outline? I want to make sure I have captured what you see and feel. You are my audience of one for now."

"Of course I will darling." Protectively he put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head. "It will be my pleasure."

"Remember, it is only an outline. A skeleton. It tells me where I need to start and where I want to go with it. Then I have to build on that and tease the story out."

"I understand that."

Even the outline took his breath away. If she continued in this vein, she would strike a chord with her readers. Her style of writing was dynamic. She was a storyteller who got beneath the skin of her characters and her readers. No wonder she was a success," he thought.

"If you can flesh that out into a book, it will be stunning. It should be made into a movie."

"I'll be satisfied if enough people read it that they will add their voices to the protests." A faraway look came into her eyes, as though looking into the distance. "If I can raise awareness in people who are cushioned by life, then I will have done my job." The light dimmed from her eyes as she thought of the lives of misery and horror she was going to write about. This was not a work of fiction. It was reality and that was what made it a tragedy of such proportions, it was unimaginable.

Chapter 66 – Colette's new novel

Two months had passed since Colette had purchased her house. The house had been redecorated and the addition was almost completed. The sun was dappling through the trees and everything was autumn watery, as the heat had gone out of the sun and the mood of the day reflected the banishment of the sun to its winter home.

Nevertheless, autumn was flaunting itself. The maple and chestnut trees were fulfilling their promise of glorious sunset, colored carpets of leaves lay on the ground, which the gardener gathered up. They could still enjoy afternoons on the deck, but soon they would have to retire indoors, when the house would enfold them to its bosom and they would spend the winter months indoors. Colette hugged herself, thinking of the wonderful aroma of indoor fires, providing the winter warmth and cheer. "It's worth cleaning out the fireplaces. I'll have to get a delivery of wood in."

They could relax and take some time out before Colette had to start promoting her new book. Her publishers wanted as much of the Christmas market as they could garner. It is one of the best times of the year for book sales.

"Let's go to the theatre." Emile suggested. "We've been so busy; we haven't taken much time out."

"What a great idea." Colette put her arms around him, reached up and pulled his mouth down to hers. Lovingly the kiss lingered. "Thank you for being here and for doing so much for me."

"You have no idea what you have done for me." Emile kissed her again. "When your wife leaves you for another man, you lose confidence in yourself with women."

Colette picked up the local calendar of events that was published for the Hamptons to see what was playing at the theatres in Sag Harbor and East Hampton. Both theatres hosted new plays that often went on to run on Broadway.

"Hmmm, I see The Boyfriend is on at Sag Harbor and it's Julie Andrews directing debut. Shall we give that a try?"

"That could be fun. We could do with a musical instead of some heavy drama," Emile agreed.

"We've got enough of that in our lives at the moment."

That decided, they waved goodbye to the builders who were putting the finishing touches to the addition and went upstairs to shower, change and whatever took their fancy.

Emile turned over lazily and pushed himself up onto his elbows and looked down at her. "I want to take you out and spoil you again. There's a great Croatian restaurant in Water Mill Square. Let's eat there before we go to the theatre, as I need to go home to change."

"Oooh, sounds great, I'm hungry already." Slowly they kissed and pushed each other way. "If we start that again, we'll never get out." Colette laughed.

After showering, they raced along the highway to Water Mill and Emile changed into some clean casual gear. That was the great thing about the Hamptons, elegant casual was the order of the day even in the upmarket restaurants and clubs. Possibly there was less snobbery in the Polo and the Equestrian Clubs, even the Yacht Clubs.

Chapter 67 – New York October 2006

In the meantime Basil had been seething with resentment. His stalking of Colette was paying off and he was aware that she had traveled to Palestine to visit the refugee camps. "Fucking bitch." Smashing his hand on the top of his desk, his face suffused with rage, he contemplated all manner of dark and vicious treatments to bring Colette down. Hard. "Why would she want to do that? I have to get into that new house of hers and have a look around."

Furious he paced up and down his office, unable to pause and look at the view of Manhattan from the floor to ceiling windows which usually entranced him, making him feel cock of the walk.

Biding his time, plotting revenge and mayhem, he had managed to get one of the building crew in his pocket. Regular reports about the progress of the house renovations and the daily schedules and plans of the inhabitants were very handy.

"It's amazing how indiscreet people are in front of tradesmen and servants," he chuckled with delight. "Invaluable for my plans."

The time was right to strike. There was a weak point of entry into the house. His spy had also informed him he had overheard a conversation about Colette and Emile going to a play tonight and the burglar alarm had not yet been installed. Well tonight he would show her she could not trifle with him. A warning only, prelude to the real thing unless she saw things his way in the future.

Having set up an alibi for himself he drove to Amagansett and parking a short distance away from the house, took the briefcase with a piece of cloth and a tool inside, out of the trunk. Closing the lid which made a satisfying soft thunk he reflected on the wisdom of purchasing luxury motor vehicles.

Who would stop a well dressed businessman carrying a briefcase if he was spotted? It was not very likely, but one could not be too sure.

How considerate of Colette to purchase a house that stood apart from neighbors in a secluded area surrounded by trees. Feigning indifference, he strolled up the walk.

Entry was so easy, as this style of house had an external staircase leading to the top floor. The balcony ran alongside Colette's bedroom which was an open invitation to any burglar. "Stupid woman," he thought with glee.

Climbing the steps he paused outside the room he had spied on for the last six weeks. Acting with ice cold fury, he broke the pane nearest to the lock, then simply turned the key to the old fashioned mortise lock (so much for retaining authenticity) and slipped the nub on the deadlock. It would look like a normal home invasion.

He was unprepared for the emotional shock as he stepped into the bedroom. The room was redolent of Colette. Even the smell of her perfumes and cosmetics teased his olfactory senses and he bit on his lower lip to contain the feelings rising inside him. His bitter gaze took in the interior which was so different from the townhouse they had decorated together and yet so Colette.

"I hate her!" Railing in his soul against his grievances with life, he turned them all back on her.

Now to set to.... with malice.

Moving out of the bedroom down the hallway he entered the den and walked over to her desk. Flipping the lid of her laptop which lay in full view he powered up the machine.

"Stupid bitch," he chortled gleefully. "She should have changed her password. Let's have a look at what we have here."

Running his eyes down the folders she had set up, he noticed one marked New Novel.

"Well, well. Let's see what the next subject is about." Placing the cursor on the folder he pressed enter and the document scrolled onto the screen.

"Fuck." He roared. "What the hell is going on here?"

At the top of the document under working title he read Blood Diamonds.

"She must have found out what I am doing and is out to get me." Feeling sick to his stomach, he skimmed the story to date. It revolved around a Cartel consisting of men from the same countries that were in his own group.

"The bloody bitch." He swore again as a pain shot through his eyes and into his head. "Christ. How did she get this information? They'll kill me if they think I leaked it to her." A keening cry of agony burst out of him. "I won't let her deprive me of this chance to realize all my goals and dreams."

Questions screamed around in his mind as his paranoia led him to believe she suspected his darker excursions in business. Had he blundered during their time together? Let slip a phrase or two to impress her? He couldn't recall having done so.

Would she hint to the world at large and ruin his life forever? Before that could happen, he would get her back under his thumb. Most women would have groveled at his feet at the thought of such power.

Hands trembling he made a decision. "I'll have to take this with me. I have to read what she's written."

Originally his intention had been to leave a subtle warning by slashing her clothes and personal effects as well as some arbitrary destruction. Now his entire body was trembling and his mind began to freeze at the thought of the Cartel finding out about this. How could he turn it to his advantage and get them to help him? He would have to kill her now. Forget some minor damage to property and her appearance.

For now he just wanted to get out of there. Frantically he cast around. "I have to make it look like a burglary."

Knowing she would have a small wall safe where she would keep backups of her work, he swept books from the shelves. Nothing there. Damn!

Casting around, he gnawed his bottom lip as his mind raced to think where she would have put the safe. Regardless of his normal dignified stance, he dropped down on to his hands and knees. Scrabbling around the base of the inside of the desk and carpet, he could find no tell tale signs of a safe.

"Fuck." He uttered furiously as his gaze swept the room. Where the fuck would she have hidden it? In the bedroom?"

Gathering up the laptop, he hurried through to the kitchen and grabbed a large kitchen knife from the block on the bench. Back to the drawing room, slashing at the furniture and sweeping ornaments onto the floor as he went. "Bitch, bitch, bitch. I know how she treasured those." Hatred twisted his face into an ugly mask. It was as though his true nature had forced its way up and stripped away the veneer of normality and sophistication.

Back up the stairs he ran, to the bedroom. Tearing paintings off the wall he searched for a hidden safe. Nothing there. Damn, damn, damn.

Into the dressing room. Slashing at the clothes neatly hung on racks, he pulled down expensive purses from shelves to see if a safe was hidden behind them. Nothing. To release the anger and tension, he slashed them.

Searching the edges of the carpet he found a section that was not secured down. Lifting this, he found the safe. How would he get into it, he didn't have the code. Bugger it! No tools to lever the lid with but he knew how foolproof they could be. The same security as the safe in the townhouse. Usually the bedroom safe only contained her jewelry. He couldn't waste time on it.

Have to hurry. Running out of time. Into the bathroom to wreak destruction there.

Pausing. Considering. What else would a burglar do, they were so vile today. A nasty malicious smile slashed across his mouth. Turning back he slipped down his trousers and performed a feat that was so out of character, he scarcely believed it himself. Backing up to her bed, he lowered his backside over it and defecated on the quilt.

"Take that you bitch. This should put them off the scent. No gentleman would ever do that." Pulling up his trousers, he leaned down and stuffed his tools back into the briefcase. "If she accuses me, no one would believe this of me and my alibi is too tight to suspect me."

Opening the French doors he looked back and spat on the floor, all English dignity having retired to the level of a caveman in the ice age era. Then running down the outside staircase he cradled the laptop under his arm, being careful not to fall.

Chapter 68 – The Hamptons October 2006

"Mmm, this is yummy." The couple were at Mirko's, run by a Croatian husband and wife team. Colette was tucking into herb crusted rack of lamb with sweet potato hash and a dijon mustard lamb stock reduction, whilst Emile had opted for the roasted duck breast with wild rice griddlecake, Bing cherry compote and honey lime vinegar sauce. The New York Times had given the restaurant a great review and it was living up to its name.

As the weather was definitely cooler, the open fire had been lit and they were seated close by, letting it warm them. The interior had a nice European alfresco ambience, the staff were friendly and the service good.

"Don't you think it would be a good idea if you kept some clothes at my place for when you stay overnight." Colette shyly suggested.

Emile reached out and picking up her hand, stroke the fine slim fingers tipped with clear nail polish. "You sure?"

"Yes, I am." What was that warmth that was glowing from deep inside her soul? Surely it was visible to the world.

"I don't want to feel as though I am pushing you into anything." Emile's brow creased at the thought of doing something that would lose her to him.

"You're not." Reassuring herself as much as Emile, she let go of her fear of intimacy. It appeared to her, events were taking over, gaining a momentum of their own that she had no control over anyway. She admitted to herself it felt good. Very good indeed.

Leaving the restaurant, they drove along the Long Island Expressway to reach Sag Harbor. Emile found a parking place and they walked back to the Bay Street Theatre. Colette shivered, despite the jacket she had pulled on. "It's certainly cooling down, winter is not far away."

Emile put his arm around her and hugged her closer to keep warm. "We can sit in front of open fires with hot toddies and mulled wine. That will help us get through it."

"Sure will." She laughed as they entered the charming small theatre. The seats were good, in the middle of the stalls, the play was excellent and they were in a happy mood when they left.

"You're staying the night?" she enquired.

"Sure am. Just in case you suggested it, I took your advice and packed a bag and threw a couple of extra changes in the back"

"You can hang everything in one of the other bedroom's closet." And they meandered happily back to Colette's.

"I must get the burglar alarm connected up again next week when the alterations are completed. They just have to put in the French doors on the mezzanine floor now and then I can reconnect it." She was happy the renovations were almost completed.

"I haven't been happy with you in the house alone but as I've been around so much with the building going on, I haven't worried about Basil."

"I think we might have seen the last of him now." Colette agreed.

Parking the Alfa in the garage next to her Peugeot, they strolled under the arbor where the jasmine and lilac had taken root and strengthened, to lay dormant and survive the winter, before pushing up hardily next spring.

Emile had his arm around Colette as she took out the key for the French doors onto the back deck which gave access to the kitchen and family room. Stopping to exchange a kiss and look into each others" eyes, Colette broke away and stretched contentedly, and then holding her left hand out to catch his in her hand, she led him into the drawing room.

As he followed her in, she stopped in her tracks and stood for a moment, frowning, as though unable to comprehend the scene before her. The synapses of her brain, fired off the message which they carried to the front lobe of her brain, where it registered.

"Oh my God, I've been burgled," she wailed, remaining stock still, horror washing across her face, while tension racing through her entire body, freezing her to the spot.

Emile looked at the devastation, and groaned in dismay. "Oh Christ." Both of them were stunned.

Suddenly Colette broke away and ran to the library. "Oh look at this," she cried in agony. Tears began to find their way down her face as she viewed the mess in the room.

"Oh God, my laptop's gone." Her hands flew to her face. "My work. My work."

Emile had followed her and taking her by the arm cradled her in his arms. "Does this mean all your work has gone?"

"No." Colette pulled herself together. "I back up everything on to a memory stick and put it in the safe." Frantically she pulled away and ran to the corner of the room where a plinth rested on the carpeting. "Help me pull it aside Emile," she pleaded.

Moving it to one side they lifted the carpeting which appeared to be secured but was not and underneath, fitting into the hollow base of the plinth was the floor safe.

"Thank God. It's not been touched." Normally levelheaded, Colette collapsed on to her knees and wrapped her arms around her stomach as stabbing pains shot through her body.

"Are these the only copies?" he queried.

"Not for the completed manuscript. That's now with Francis and also the publishers. I've done some work on the new book and that stick should still be here." Trembling, she made herself key in the code and levering the lid of the safe open, sighed with relief as she saw the memory stick with her backup copy sitting on a shelf.

Closing the safe again and keying in the code to secure it once more, she leaned forward until her head touched the floor and put her hands around the top of her head.

Emile looked down at her feeling utterly helpless. "Shush. Stand up Colette." Reaching down he lifted her back onto her feet and feeling her collapsing once more, held her tightly.

Lifting her ravaged face to look at his, she pushed him gently away. "I have to see what has happened to the rest of the house. How did they get in?"

Running back to the hallway and up the inner staircase she keened wildly as she saw the damage in the bedroom and the appalling sight on the bed. "Who would do such a thing?" she cried in agony as her stomach heaved against the invasion to her space and the stench.

Emile had followed closely behind her and ran to her as she gestured in bewilderment at the mess. "There are some real crazies out there today."

There were many burglaries in the Hamptons. Standing still he watched as the distraught woman walked into the dressing room.

"Oh God."

Numbly following he saw her standing stock still, her head bowed as if she could not bear to see what had happened to her clothes and handbags.

"Jesus Christ." Emile cursed again. Immediately he strode into the bathroom, to see lotions and powders spilt all over the floor.

"Look in the safe and see if your jewelry is alright. Do you keep any cash in the house?" he muttered grimly.

Dazed, she turned to the small safe set into the floor of the dressing room. "A little, not much, in the safe."

"It seems to be untouched," Emile muttered as they both gazed down at the surface.

"It's Basil." Colette said. Her body and mind felt numb. Her home and life had been ravaged maliciously. "I know its Basil," she repeated.

Whilst he couldn't believe any right minded person could be responsible for this vicious attack, something didn't ring true about kids looking to wreck a nice home for kicks and search for money for drugs.

"That's strange; you would think there would be marks on it if burglars tried to jimmy it."

Colette just stood mutely staring. She was shivering and Emile knew she was in shock. Grabbing a warm dressing gown, he wrapped it around her and sat her down in a grandmother chair facing out the French doors. It was immediately obvious to them how entry had been gained into the house.

"I'll phone the police. See if there are any traces the vandals have left. Don't touch anything."

"Don't worry about any evidence." Colette's tone was hollow. "I know Basil did this but how could he have done such a foul thing on the bed. I would never have believed it of him."

"Just covering his traces, if indeed it was him." Emile turned towards the phone on the bedside cabinet, picked it up and dialed the police.

Colette attempted to stand, but slumped to the floor like a nineteenth century heroine and let sobs rack her entire being.

"Will I ever be rid of him?" she cried out, her heart pounding as the fight and flight response pushed her adrenalin sky high.

"We don't know it's him. We can't prove it isn't burglars. How did they get in." Again he lifted her up and placed her back in the chair. "Stay here," he commanded, walking over to the French doors. "This is how they got in. It's a simple matter to break the pane and undo the locks. We'll have to make these less authentic and more secure. They obviously climbed up the external staircase."

Leaving Colette in the bedroom, he pulled the door open and made his way down the staircase. Once downstairs he walked around the house to the French doors leading into the library. No-one had jimmied the doors nor broken any panes to gain access.

Curious, he completed a circuit outside the house but could see no more outside damage. Slowly he ascended the external staircase once more. Walking into the bedroom he saw Colette still sitting in the chair, face ashen and her composure one of defeat.

"He acts as though I am a possession he won't give up. In his twisted mind, I don't exist as a person in my own right. Oh why did I ever marry him? I know it's him," Colette said dully and Emile's heart ached as he saw the destruction to her spirit.

"I think you could be right," he reassured her. "I'll stay with you here tonight. Help clean up this mess. Then tomorrow we will go back to my place for a few days."

"I can't leave the house empty."

"The burglar alarm is due to be installed tomorrow."

"They are only useful if you are in the house. Neighbors take no notice of them. Why should they? Why should anyone risk their lives for your belongings? Not today, the burglars are too vicious."

"Don't forget it has a direct link to the security firm who will immediately respond." Emile tried desperately to bring some measure of normality into the situation, which was pretty impossible when faced with such destructiveness. However, she was in deep shock and he had to try and bring her out of it safely, so acting as normal as possible was important.

Miserably she looked up at him. "I feel as though I am winding down like a mantle clock that has not been wound for days." Casting her eyes around the room in desperation, they lit on Emile standing by her and as he drew her to him, her shattered nerves calmed. "I've never been violated like this before. I grew up in a community where we felt safe, before burglaries became so violent. Then I lived in apartments in the city. Secure apartments with doormen and security controls in the elevators."

"I know." Again he held her tight. "Let's go downstairs and wait for the police."

Shuddering she pulled away. "First I have to get rid of this." Turning to the bed, she pulled the quilt and sheets away. "I'll burn them in the morning. I'll also get rid of the mattress and get a new one. I can't bear the thought of sleeping in this bed again." Again her gorge rose at the thought of it.

"Give them to me." Gently he took the bundle out of her hands. "Follow me, we're going downstairs." Mulling over the events, Emile began to suspect that Basil was not so much the English gentleman and had to be stopped.

Meekly she followed him thanking God he was in her life. How would she have coped with this on her own?

"We'll clean this up in the morning and you can move in with me."

"I can't run away like this," she protested. "If I do he wins."

"Colette." Standing in the kitchen, he turned her around to face him. You can't stay here on your own. If Basil has done this, then he's dangerous. There is no question of whether he wins or loses. I'll come and stay with you."

"You can't do that. Your office is in your home. Running back and forth will wear you out. You have other clients to consider and they must not suffer because of me."

"I know, but I want you safe."

"Look I'll tell you what I'll do." Racking her brains for a sensible solution, she thought of her friends. "I'll go up and stay with Ellie and Floyd for a week in Cambridge. You can come up some nights as they have plenty of room."

"I can't impose on them like that," he protested.

"Yes, you can, they like you and will be more than happy. I can help Ellie with the preparation for these TV shows. I can make myself useful. It will help me recover my equilibrium whilst I wait for Francis and the publishers to need my input again."

"Okay, it sounds a good plan." Looking at her seriously, he agreed. "I'm going to call in some outside help here as I cannot rely on both houses being patrolled whilst we are away."

"That will cost a fortune," she protested.

"No it won't, it's time to tell you about my Uncle Lorenzo."

"Uncle Lorenzo?" She looked at him querying.

"Yes. I don't think we can cope with this on our own."

"I'm not going to let anyone spoil this house for me." Feeling her spirit and strength rise again, Colette lifted her head and squared her shoulders. "I love it. I'll get over it. Maybe I'm stupid to run. I should stay." Her gaze took in the devastation and a deep sigh rose from the depth of her being.

"We can't risk it." Emile shook his head. "Ring Ellie and organize your staying with them. You go straight up there. I'll speak with a couple of clients, one of whom is Uncle Lorenzo and I'll be up there with you in a couple of days."

"I don't know." Wrinkling her nose, Colette felt her courage return.

"Colette. Do as I say. You've got to retreat for now to fight another day." Emile put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes.

"OK?" Being stalked and violated was new to Colette, but she realized prudence was the order of the day and nodded reluctantly.

"Good girl. Now let's sort this out."

"What will you do with Hannibal?"

"I'll take him up to Uncle Lorenzo's. He loves being there. Has the run of the estate, gets to run with their dogs and gets spoilt rotten."

Colette smiled wanly at the thought of the Red Setter in full cry.

The doorbell rang. Turning Emile walked to the door to let the police in. "I'm surprised they came tonight." He voiced his concern as he led them inside. "Home invasions are low on their list of priorities these days if there is no human collateral involved."

"My laptop has gone." Colette informed the police officer, who simply shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

"I would be surprised if it hadn't. Thieves chose saleable items such as a laptop, TV, CD equipment. Turn them over for a quick buck."

Quick as a flash Colette confronted the detective. "Then why are my televisions and CD players still in the house?"

This gave the law enforcement man pause for thought. That was bizarre, but after considering this for a brief moment he dismissed it out of hand. "Domestics, a pain in the ass." After all, he had bigger things on his mind. This was just another day at the office.

What he failed to consider, was the role domestic violence played in the high incidence of murders in the US.

"God, what next." Ellie her friend was upset when she rang the next day. "I think it is best if you come up here for a week or so. I can use your experience with TV appearances. I'm a bit nervous. Could use you to lean on too."

"I'd love to be there for you. Now is the best time, as I have to start promoting the book next month." Colette let go all the pent-up emotions. "Would you mind if Emile came up on the odd night?"

"Heavens, have him base himself here. Floyd and I wander around this big house now the kids are at College and sometimes lose each other. We will love the company. Floyd likes Emile and will enjoy having him around."

"You sure." Colette was dubious about imposing.

"Absolutely. Get yourselves up here. You don't need to bring anything except yourselves." Ellie insisted and made a mental note to have a talk to her ex-Spook husband about Basil's attack on Colette and have him delve a little more deeply into the man's affairs. There was something about him that had always made her feeling uneasy. Perhaps she should have taken more notice of her instincts.

Colette put down the phone and turned to Emile. "It's done." And she relayed Ellie's message to him. Emile wasn't reassured. "Colette I'm really uneasy about this. You need more protection than a security firm can provide. I want to drive up to see Uncle Lorenzo and speak with him."

"What good will that do Emile? "

"I'll tell you on the way up," he promised.

"Darling. That's not necessary. I know Basil is behind this even if he didn't carry out the burglary himself. He'll have an alibi and I don't know how to stop him."

"Well I do." Emile's face was set and his mind made up. "We're going to see Uncle Lorenzo." He picked up the phone and made a call whilst Colette wandered back to the family room and looked miserably out of the window.

Chapter 69 – New York Basil reads Colette's notes

In the safety of his office on the 30th floor of the Manhattan skyscraper that discreetly housed Ambrose Bank, Basil felt relatively secure.

Opening the safe in his office he took out Colette's laptop and placing it on his desk fired it up.

Accessing the folder for Blood Diamonds, he began to read and as his eyes followed the outline of the story, the color leached out of his face and a deep black rage rose to the surface from where it smoldered in his black, black heart, casting its ugly mark across his features.

Rough notes to be edited and story fleshed out – he read the rough notes that Colette had made

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. How does she know about this? She lives a sheltered life. Where did this come from?" Basil remained hunched over the laptop, as he read the beginning of the next chapter outline.

"Jesus Christ." Scarcely daring to breathe, he imagined the ramifications if the Cartel ever saw what she had written. His eyes followed her marked notes.

Chapter ? of outline notes

The Cartel met once more in Monte Carlo. The Russian, Israeli Jew, English Banker and a representative of Mossad.

Scanning down the pages, scarcely able to breathe, he read:

The trail led out of Sierra Leone, through Liberia and Turkey to Antwerp, where diamonds were cut, into Israel where they were sold; through the Virgin Islands where the money was laundered by the English Banker and on to Russia who provided the arms required to subdue the local populace.

Basil's stomach lurched and he ran into the bathroom spewing up his dinner, moaning like a cow giving birth to a calf. When he had finally lost all of that night's dinner, he carefully raised his head as the room promptly spun around. Steadying himself on the vanity bench, he looked into the mirror and was appalled at the sight. Ever the urbane gentlemen he looked disgustedly at the drool hanging from his mouth and cupping his hand brought it to his mouth and washed the sour taste from it. Grabbing a toothbrush he scrubbed until he felt the metallic taste of fear was overcome by the toothpaste.

Picking up a washcloth, he ran it under hot water and wiped his face. Still he remained bending over the sink panting.

"Where in God's name did she get the information? She must die. I can't hide it from the Cartel," he reasoned. "They will kill me if I do."

Slowly he raised his head to see if it would stop spinning. When he felt relatively steady he slowly walked back to his desk and sat down.

How in God's name did she know this? Perhaps he had talked in his sleep? Where had she got the information about the trail out of Zimbabwe and Sierra Leone? My God what if he had mentioned names.

Panic coursed through his entire body and his bowels began to feel uncomfortably loose at the thought of Ira and Arkadiy finding out, and then reasoned he would have to speak with them. Maybe the mad Russian could kill her. Make it look like a rape killing or something.

Briefly he considered leaving it to Arkadiy but soon rejected it, as it was not in his best interests.

"I knew there was a reason behind that trip to Palestine."

Colette had commenced a rough outline about the plight of the people.

His rage was mounting as he considered the insult to his massive ego and self esteem.

"Fucking bitch." Smashing his hand on the top of his desk, his face suffused with rage, he contemplated all manner of dark and vicious treatments of Colette.

Some he rejected as too risky, he had to protect himself at all costs as his venture was going extremely well, and that was all that mattered.

"I'll kill her," he raged. Just as well it was after hours and his secretary and most of the staff had left for the day. However in investment banking the work never stopped and he had to be careful not to expose himself. Pacing the floor his rage mounted until his chest felt constricted and his breathing grew shallow and fast.

"Perhaps I should get that mad Russian on to her," he muttered. "No." he reasoned. "Can't expose myself to the Cartel like that. The bastard would probably blackmail me forever anyway."

Regaining some poise as his nervous system quietened down, Basil walked back into his private bathroom and preened in front of the full length mirror. "I offered her what half the damn women in New York want, an aristocratic background. In the true sense of the word. Not these jumped up Mayflower rejects from the Old Country. As he sucked up to them, he had to work hard to suppress his contempt for them and their snobbish WASP ways and backgrounds. After all their hands on the reins of power were firm and ruthless.

What he saw in the mirror was a reflection of a true lineage. Bearing and dress sense only came with that. All these Johnny come lately fag fashion designers from Italy were a joke, along with the young upstarts who thought they had bought breeding and bearing with the money they made. For God's sake most of the Mafia were running around in the same designers' suits, whilst their wives were dressed to kill. "Flaunt themselves more likely," he muttered, "in gaudy clothing trying to complete with female rock stars who preened and simpered at the fashion collections."

Strolling to the toilet he relieved himself, turned back to the washbasin and picked up the bar of soap to wash his hands. A light went on in his head as an idea presented itself and he contemplated the object before placing it back down. Drying his hands, he walked back into the office without turning off the lights. That was the job of minions who walked in his shadow and tidied up after him.

Feeling better as he considered the germ of an idea, he knew it would take careful planning. Originally he had intended to merely disfigure her. Then let's see how the new boyfriend reacted. He wouldn't hang around for long. Let her live with the rejection that would come her way together with the sight of her face and body scarred for life.

How he would have enjoyed watching her suffer but the threat she posed ruled this out. He would have to make sure she died. Show the Cartel he could be as ruthless as any of them. Like the Mafia, he would make his bones, then they would have to respect him.

Chapter 70 – Late October 2006

Although it was a pleasant drive up from Watermill, Colette and Emile felt shattered after Basil's invasion of her home. They had spoken with the police who had been dismissive of Colette's suspicions about Basil, but promised to look into it. If they followed up on all home invasions that were reported, they would have to employ double the manpower and there was no funding for that.

Emile and Colette had cleaned up the mess, collected and threw away the clothing and handbags that had been mutilated, made sure the repairs to the French doors were made, ensured the installation of the French doors in the library were completed, switched on the alarm system and left at 1pm. Laura, Colette's housekeeper would come in and thoroughly clean the house.

Arrangements had been made with the security company to make three visits nightly around the property. This was as much as could be done.

Now they were in Emile's SUV, which he kept for business, driving towards Brookville on Long Island's north shore. With one hand on the steering wheel and one hand holding Colette's he watched her hair being blown around by the early autumn breeze through the sun roof and was pleased it was bringing some color to her face.

Hannibal stood excitedly in the back, his beautiful long hair blowing around him as well.

"Uncle Lorenzo is my father's brother and lives in this large enclave in Brookville, with all his family around him. Like a feudal lord of old."

Colette looked at him in astonishment. "Good grief. Sounds like a Mafia Don. Who is he?"

"He would be insulted if he heard you say that." Emile laughed. "He's spent a lot of his life trying to bring them to justice. No, he's from Northern Italy and the Mafia originated in Calabria and Sicily."

"Why don't the boys want to live alone?" Colette found it very curious.

"Well, you have to understand Italian families. I know, I know," he forestalled her before she could state the obvious. "Wealthy Italians are no different to Wasps. They often build enclaves, with homes for their extended families and the house in Brookville is his retreat from the world. This estate is set in fifteen acres."

"Good God. How did they manage to get the land, They're running out of room in Long Island. How many sons has he?"

"Three, and they all have good sized homes on the estate. This one's for the youngest who is getting married, so he moves out of Papa's house and into his own. They've owned this land for 35 years since Uncle Lorenzo married."

"It still sounds like la famiglia Colette looked at him nervously. Were there deep shadows in his life she didn't want to know about?

"Nothing like that," he reassured her taking his eyes off the road for a second to look into hers.

Still feeling nervous she tried to make light of the situation. "Don't they feel suffocated all living on top of each other?"

Emile sighed. "You don't know Italian families. Anyway he has a summer home on Lago Como he goes to if he wants to a bit of solitude. But that is not often, he loves them around. Italians are like that."

"Emile, are you sure.....?"

"Don't even go there," He warned her. "For God's sake don't ever mention anything like that in front of them."

"Emile, I don't think you're telling me everything."

"You're right, but I will," he laughed.

They continued the drive up the freeway, until the turnoff towards Brookville.

Driving towards the shoreline, Colette was amazed at the size of the estates bordering it. Emile stopped at a gate set in a wall and spoke into the speaker. The gates opened and he drove up a long driveway, past manicured gardens and clumps of trees that sheltered the two houses she could just glimpse through them. Driving on further they arrived at a massive house that was beautifully proportioned, despite being the size of Buckingham Palace in England. It had obviously been designed to replicate one of the stately homes in England, or maybe three of four of them together, Colette thought.

"We're building a house I designed for my cousin. Here it is."

They turned off to the right before the large manor house, arriving at a new house obviously recently constructed. Emile had wrought a miracle. The new building was light and airy, contemporary, yet complemented the estate mansion around which life revolved. Set in acres of land with a man made lake to the side, glancing to the rear of the property she could see other buildings.

"It's beautiful Emile. My God," Colette was dumbstruck as they came to a halt. "What are those other houses I can see through there?"

"Stables. Car Museum. Guest houses. "

"There's enough room in the palace for everyone, surely." She protested.

"They like their privacy." Emile waved his hand offhandedly. "Even the Queen of England buys homes for her boys when they are old enough or are getting married. My cousins move out of home just like other boys."

Colette doubled up with laughter until the tears streamed down her face and Emile looked at her with delight. After Basil's invasion stunt, he was delighted to see her laugh so freely.

"Privacy." Colette spluttered. "It's another world. An enclave like the Kennedy's. He may not be the Godfather, but he sure as hell is the lord of the manor, reigning over it all. Were you invited to the coronation? Is this how the top one percentile of the world live?"

Emile sighed and smiled at her fondly as he brought the car to a halt. "Stroll around for a minute if you like. I just want to check on a few last things, before we go up to the big house."

Hopping out of the car, he went to the rear and opened the door for Hannibal who leapt out and began running around in circles.

"Heel Hannibal," Emile called and the dog obeyed.

Opening the car door for her, the three of them strolled towards the new construction. A young man detached himself from the group, approached, and greeted Emile. Introducing Colette, as they walked towards the house, Emile explained Alessio was the foreman.

He let Hannibal have his head and he disappeared in the direction of the kennels which housed Neapolitan Mastiffs.

The two men began to go over the plans and Emile greeted the workmen, who, as far as Colette could tell, were all Italian. Obviously keeping it in the family. As the two men walked around the site, pointing at the roofline and attended to other construction matters, Colette wandered to the rear of the house where a copse of trees sheltered some other buildings.

"Don't go far." Emile called out. "I won't be too long."

Colette acknowledged him with a wave of her hand, as she wandered towards the lake and stood looking at the swans and ducks. There were some large rocks placed around the edges and smoothing her skirt, seated herself carefully to admire the large lily pads that would cradle the water lilies when they bloomed in spring. Her thoughts turned to Basil and how much of a nuisance he had turned out to be; and she sighed.

"Good morning young lady." A voice, with a smooth Italian accent interrupted her reverie. "That was a big sigh. Is something concerning you?"

Surprised, as she had not heard any footsteps approaching she turned on the rock and looked up to see a sprightly, elegant older gentleman smiling down at her. "He looks just like the Pope," she thought irreverently and hoped he couldn't read her thoughts. "Same build and head of hair; the only thing lacking is the cassock and skullcap."

"I'm sorry," she said rising. "Am I trespassing?"

"Oh, my goodness no," he smiled and putting out his hand, took hers in his large hand and held it. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Lorenzo Rotolo."

"It's nice to meet you." Colette smiled and felt the warmth flowing from the older man towards her. "What a beautiful place this is." She gestured towards the estate.

"Yes, it is nice isn't it? You came with Emile?" He looked at her keenly.

"Yes, I did. I'm Colette."

"Aaah," he said and put his other hand over hers and held it. "You are the beautiful Colette. He was not exaggerating."

"I beg your pardon?"

"He has spoken of you to me. He is very fond indeed of you."

Colette blushed and thought she could get to like this courtly gentleman very much.

Lorenzo released her hand, then placed his own under her elbow. "Would you like something to drink? Winter is around the corner and the house must be completed by then. Emile may be a while. He can follow us up to the house."

"I would be more than delighted. I am beginning to feel the chill." Allowing Lorenzo to help her rise, she pulled her jacket closer around her body.

With that he led her off to the main house. As they passed Emile he waved airily. "We will see you in the green drawing room." Emile waved back in response.

Leading her around the back, they entered a huge courtyard that was surrounded on three sides with wings of the large complex. Large urns stood around the courtyard and trees were planted in large squares set into the brickwork. Leading her forward they entered French doors that led into a huge conservatory. Despite the early autumn breeze, the days were still sunny and it was warm inside as he led her through beautiful plants until they reached a furnished lounging area. Gesturing her towards a deep comfortable armchair, he sat down on the sofa and leaning forward to the coffee table, picked up a bell and rang it. "Would you like coffee or tea?"

"Coffee would be lovely thank you." Colette was absolutely enchanted with his courtliness.

A maid approached and he ordered coffee for both of them, then sat back smiling at her.

"You're Emile's uncle?" Colette ventured.

"Yes, I am. On his father's side." Twinkling eyes met her curious gaze.

"I'm only just learning about his family."

"Yes, well we are rather large and it is all a bit complicated. I'm not surprised he has saved it until now."

"Well, I'm looking forward to finding out all about you."

The maid returned bearing a dinner wagon, which held not only an exquisite bone china coffee set, but two tiered cake stands with finger sandwiches and cakes.

Asking Colette how she took her coffee, the maid poured and set out a plate in front of her, with a cake fork and knife on a pure white linen napkin, then offered her one of the stands. Colette selected a sandwich and thanked her.

Lorenzo accepted a sandwich, and then they both sat back and took stock of each other, as they ate their sandwiches. Dismissing the maid, when Colette had finished the sandwich, he leant forward and picking up the cake stand offered it to her. She chose one of the superbly crafted Italian small marzipan imitations of fruits and vegetables and placed it in front of her.

"Please take another," Lorenzo pressed her. "Try the amoretto, they are delicious."

"I shouldn't....." Colette hesitated. "But I will."

Taking a bite, her mouth watered as the sublime taste of amoretto, so beloved to Italians, tickled her taste buds. "That's absolutely delicious," she told the delighted Lorenzo.

"I like a woman with an appetite," He commented. "How's the coffee?"

"Wonderful," she responded. "Just how I like it, rich and mellow but not bitter."

"I will let you into a little secret. My housekeeper is a purist and she chooses the beans, blends them, and then roasts them here on the estate. Each time we draw a pot of coffee it is freshly ground."

"I can tell by the wonderful aroma. Whilst I always grind my beans fresh for each coffee, I cannot say I have them specially blended and roasted for me." They chatted away, exchanging foodie tips. "I purchase Kimbo coffee beans from Italy."

"Ah yes. I often drink their coffee when I am in Lago Como. Let me give you a packet of our blend to take with you," he offered and picking up the bell, rang it again.

When the maid came he instructed her to package some coffee for Colette and give it to her before she left. When she had finished her cup of coffee, he offered her more, but she politely refused, replete after the delicious afternoon tea.

"Come," he said rising. "Let me show you through the house."

Colette had never seen such magnificence and when Emile arrived an hour later they had just returned to the conservatory, strolling comfortably and chatting together like old friends.

"Emile," Lorenzo kissed him on both cheeks. "Sit down, have coffee," and he rang for a fresh pot. "You must bring Colette again, she is delightful. I want her to meet the family."

"I promise I will," Emile promised. They drank another coffee, while Emile helped himself to sandwiches and cake and then turned to Lorenzo.

"Tell me about it." The latter invited and listened intently while the entire messy story unfolded.

"Of course I will provide protection for Colette until this is over," he promised. "Let me think on it."

Thanking him, Emile promised to call Lorenzo when they were ready to return to Amagansett. "Are you sure you'll be safe in Cambridge?" he queried.

"Yes." Colette assured him. "Floyd was with the CIA and I feel very safe with him."

Lorenzo rose. "It was delightful meeting you. Do not worry Colette, we will be ever near and some will be invisible. Do you mind if someone stays on the property with you for a while."

"Not at all," she assured him. "I have spare rooms. I cannot believe you are being so generous. I'm sorry to put everyone to this bother."

"No bother. He will be very non-intrusive," he reassured her, and then turned to Emile. "You do not come often enough to visit when you are supervising. I want to see a great deal more of you now that you will bring this lovely lady with you. Have you delivered the hound?"

Emile smiled and nodded. "He was off to the kennels like a shot out of a gun. Couldn't wait to see his friends."

The two men embraced again. Lorenzo kissed Colette's hand again then saw them out to the end of the courtyard where they said goodbye. When Colette looked back he was still standing there in his beautifully cut tweed jacket over a cashmere pullover, slacks and loafers. The epitome of an Italian of noble birth.

"Emile?" she queried. "I did not see any men lurking around, looking as though they would shoot me in a minute."

"No. You won't. He has bodyguards, but only one or two and they are very discreet. However, he has contacts."

"Emile, who is he?"

"One day," he promised.

And she left it at that, as they drove off the magnificent estate with Emile feeling a lot more relieved than when he had arrived.

Chapter 71 – Boston late October 2006

Just across the river from Boston, Cambridge is a charming city of one million people, situated in the shadow of two of America's most prestigious learning institutions, Harvard University and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). It is separated from Boston only by the Charles River, which is spanned by numerous bridges and is often known as Boston's Left Bank.

Founded by the first fundamentalist Christians who fled England and its repressive corruption, they wanted to be free to worship their pure Biblical religion. Arriving in Massachusetts Bay, they settled several villages in the area. After much deliberation they established Cambridge in 1630 and laid out in orderly grids.

Several villages were settled around Massachusetts and each family owned a house lot in the village, planting fields outside, and a share in the common land. Boston could only be reached by ferry and was eight miles away.

As recently as the 1950's, the McCarthy witch hunts ruined many lives with unjustified charges of communism and spying for the arch enemy Russia. Today there are no witch trials in Salem Massachusetts and Cambridge is a thriving city of one million people.

Drive into this charming University town and you find all the cafes, book stores, and boutiques in the pleasant Squares that the city is built around. Great dining experiences from around the globe; theatres, museums and historic sites.

Harvard Square is located around the historic brick walls of the Country's oldest University, which was established in 1636 by vote of the Great and General Court of Massachusetts Bay Colony. Named for its first benefactor, John Harvard of Charlestown, a young minister who upon his death, left his library and half his estate to the new institution.

Cross over the bridge from Beacon Hill in Boston, and you arrive in Kendall Square which is home to another prestigious learning academy, Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) and is the heart of Massachusetts' booming high tech and biotechnology industries.

Ellie and Floyd lived in a two storied colonial home within walking distance of the small private Davis University, where he was Professor of Middle Eastern Studies, a subject he was very familiar with from his years in the CIA based in Turkey.

Attending Harvard in his youth to study Mid-Eastern history and languages, the recruiters from the CIA had originally found an eager and willing listener. So proud to be accepted in the service of his country, the idealistic young patriot indulged in visions of being the American Lawrence of Arabia. Slowly he came to realize he had, instead, been the grand turkey of the Middle East.

Years of involvement took their toll. He loved and admired the peoples of the area and hated seeing them worked over. Far from helping them, he created chaos and confusion in their lives.

Finally he had grown tired of his country's foreign policies and empirical ambitions. This culminated early on in the Bush Jr. Presidency and he resigned, disillusioned and ashamed of his part in it.

When Colette married Basil, Floyd had some misgivings and figured him for a right prick, but he was her choice so what could he do? As the marriage wound its way down the opposite side of the rainbow, Floyd checked him out, unearthing whispers about Basil's involvement with a new international smuggling ring in diamonds for arms. Many nights saw him angst about Colette being married to him.

Soon after Colette had left him, thank God, saving Floyd the trouble of figuring out how to tell her. Knowing her as he did, he was aware she wouldn't want to be involved with Basil when he was endorsing genocide and mass murder.

Floyd's personal opinion of Basil was that his hardwiring kept shorting. It was all that damn English inbreeding. Well disguised, but the danger was there. He was not surprised by the turn of events.

Ushering them into his study, Floyd gestured to the leather sofa. Settling himself in his button back leather chair, he proceeded to fill his pipe, tamped it down, lit it and contentedly drew back.

"I want you to tell me exactly what has happened Colette." Floyd wanted to know everything and the couple took turns in bringing him up to date.

"What I can't understand Floyd," Emile leaned forward to emphasize the point he was trying to make, concern playing shadows across the landscape of his features. "Is that he is so damn blatant. If you take all the incidents together, it's obvious he's responsible and I am beginning to feel bloody uncomfortable. How the hell do you stop someone who seems to be so well protected?"

"The problem Emile is proof." Floyd pulled on his pipe, his comfort blanket in times of stress. "He's cunning, covers his tracks and there are those who will provide him with an alibi to protect a well respected institution in financial circles. This is what New York is all about as one of the financial centers of the world. It will go to great lengths to protect itself from scandal. The ranks will close around him."

Emile's face clouded with anger. "So he gets off scot free."

"Unfortunately it's Colette's word against his." Floyd turned to look at Colette who was ashen. How he hated being the harbinger of bad news. "There are other ways," he reassured the worried couple. Floyd began to suspect there were forces behind Basil that he was all too familiar with. People whose best interests would be served by covering up the scandal. However, the long arm of protection would reach only so far before realizing the danger to themselves. Then his perversity would no longer be tolerated.

Murder and mayhem were fine in their book, but when it began to tear apart the fabric of their carefully laid plans, he would become too great a threat for them to contain. Floyd could leverage on that and he would have no compunction whatsoever. Basil had drawn him back into a world he had turned his face from. If he played his cards right, this could be turned to Colette's advantage.

"It's still a man's world isn't it Floyd?" Reaching over to take his hand, she pleaded silently for help.

"In the circles he moves in, yes. Let me think about this, sleep on it and decide tomorrow what I'm going to do. Over the next few days, help Ellie with the TV show. Get your mind off it. I promise I'll come up with something."

Colette sighed and rose, utterly weary. Emile looked at her and his heart went out to his lover who was changing before his eyes. He had never felt so helpless in his life.

Ellie put out her hand to Colette and together they left the room, leaving the two men together.

"What the hell does this mean Floyd?" Emile ran his fingers through his hair. A jackhammer was pounding away inside his head as if trying to emphasize their plight. "For Colette's sake, I've tried to convince myself it was a local burglary but I don't believe it for one moment. We need help here, the police are not doing anything, or if they are they're powerless."

Unwilling to discuss his family's connections with Floyd, he had approached Lorenzo for help as well.

"I love this woman and I don't want her harmed." Rising he began to pace the floor. "I feel so damned helpless. This guy's a fruitcake. What the hell can I do?"

"I don't want you discussing what I'm about to tell you with Colette but I'm more concerned than I'm letting on." Floyd admitted. "I've checked Basil out and am disturbed to hear rumors about an unsavory business deal he's involved in. Let me mull things over, contact some people. Work this out."

Floyd rose and put his hand on Emile's arm. "Go to bed and comfort her. Leave it to me. Trust me! I'll do whatever I need to. You will know nothing, but I promise you, I will do something. Ellie and I love Colette. Believe me, she will be protected."

Steering Emile towards the study door, he saw him upstairs and returned to the study. Walking over to the French doors, he looked out onto the peaceful street and thought how fortunate he was to be out of his old profession.

At Davis, he taught Middle Eastern History, having a deep love of Ottoman and Byzantine lore and had the ability to expound at length and hold his students spellbound.

He respected Islamic history. The 9th century and the succeeding four centuries, were deemed the Islamic Golden Age. Artists, engineers, scholars, poets, philosophers, geographers and traders in the Islamic world contributed to the arts, agriculture, economics, industry, law, literature, navigation, philosophy, sciences, sociology and technology, both by preserving and building upon earlier traditions and by adding inventions and innovations of their own.

The West had a tainted view of their rules and achievers. Saladin had been a highly regarded and celebrated example of the principles of chivalry, winning the respect of many of the Crusaders, including Richard the Lionheart. When Islam conquered other nations they preserved the books, the culture and the intelligentsia rather than destroying them, as the objective of invasion is to take over an already successful wealthy nation. It made no sense to destroy it?

His students and the faculty liked Floyd and he had settled into the niche he had carved for himself, reluctant to be drawn back into his former life.

As a CIA Station Head based in Turkey, Floyd's specialty had been the Middle East theatre. He spoke Arabic, Hebrew, Turkish and Farsi fluently, as well as Russian and Italian.

Like all CIA postings it had been a bloody circus. He knew the Israelis well and understood their determination to hold on to the small country they had been assigned that was surrounded by enemies, rather than return to countries that had persecuted them for centuries. He admired them and acknowledged that Mossad and other Israeli military units were amongst the elite in the world. Fortunately, he still had contacts there he intended to leverage on Colette's behalf.

Damn it, he thought he was free of all that. How naïve he and Bill had been when they turned their back on the CIA with its plots and insurgencies, their black ops, interrogation centres in other countries so America could not be accused of torture on its soil; and the infamous Guatanamo Bay. They would never be free of the taint they carried in their souls.

It was impossible to share with Emile, his speculation that there was definitely some political intrigue behind Basil. The banker was not someone Floyd could confront and reason with. However, he could sow the seeds of discord at which he was particularly adept, having plenty of experience. Time to dip his toe in the deep waters again. The ambiguity of the situation was not lost on him. It was a dirty business and his own hands were far from clean.

Long ago, he had tired of the games, but it had taken time to extricate himself and to seek refuge in the hallowed halls of academia. Here he sought to make amends and seek peace within his guilt ridden soul.

Recalling missions into the area and clandestine meetings where the fate of thousands of gentle, generous people was sealed made his skin crawl these days. Elaborate plots were hatched, adopted, or rejected, like some mad computer game, with total disregard for the lives

of ordinary people that would be forfeit. His mind returned to cold nights in the desert, under cover of the starry canopy, hoping the God of the Israeli's, Yahweh, was on duty.
Chapter 72 – The History of the Middle East

There are barking mad zealots in any religion, who stand alone from the moderates, whether they are Zionists, Islamists or Christians. In order to defuse their enemies somewhat, the Israelis invoked the age old strategy of divide and conquer. In the 1970s, they granted licenses to a Lebanese movement that emerged, Hamas, so they could set up food kitchens, clinics, schools, and day-care centers in Lebanon. They then used the zealots amongst them, to create friction between Arafat's Palestinian Fatah and Hamas.

Reminiscing on the dark days of the Black September, which involved Abu Nidal, long suspected of being an asset of British and Israeli intelligence, Floyd raked over the dying embers of his memories, which he had hoped to obliterate. Fat chance, they sifted through the grate in his mind and clung to the deep dark recesses, waiting for a breeze to blow them back into existence.

There were always plans to create a new Mid-East war, invade the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan and overthrow the moderate King Abdullah II. Under Hamas control, they would establish Jordan as a Palestinian homeland, thus achieving the final solution to the Palestinian problem. Floyd drew back on his pipe again.

Tough for the Jordanians who were to be driven into Syria, which didn't mean the Syrians would like it. Following the disco bombing in Tel Aviv, the Israeli government had tried, unsuccessfully, to win Cabinet support for a mass expulsion of the Palestinians and Israeli Arabs.

'An eye for an eye.' Floyd sighed again as he pulled on his pipe. There was certainly no turning the other cheek now.

Jewish history is full of warrior kings who embarked on holy wars and much blood was shed over the ownership of land that was won and lost. Continually proclaiming their exalted position as the Chosen Ones of God, they had gotten right up the noses of the other tribes from Abraham's clan.

Having been around the traps for too long, Floyd was well aware of the fine line Israel walked with the ongoing American administrations. The Oslo peace accords had been a smoke screen. The dog and pony show had to go on, but in reality no-one was really serious about peace in the damned region. War is a mammoth industry, providing ongoing employment for the military and intelligence arms of countries. This monster must be fed, even in peacetime, as once disabled it would be prohibitive to resurrect.

Knowing the Zionists as he did, he knew that once unleashed, they would not call back the dogs of war. If it kept their allies the Americans happy, they would attend the meetings at Camp

David and pretend to be brokering a peace that was as removed from their plans as the coming of the Messiah.

That this had not eventuated is partly due to the internal conflict in Israeli politics. Even Yitzhak Rabin, who had been the founder of the Israeli military, came to realise that this machine could not guarantee Israel's existence, when they failed to put down the Intifada, the Palestinian resistance movement to Israeli rule. This movement has only grown stronger to the present day.

A ray of hope for those who sought peace, shone briefly in 1992 when the Labor party returned to power with Rabin as Prime Minister, a courageous hones man; and Peres as Foreign Minister. Their main commitment was to disband Jewish settlements, return the land and support the creation of a Palestinian state.

Floyd was well versed in halachic (Jewish religious law) and the secular law of the state. The man who reversed his stance and wanted peace with his neighbours, Yitzhak Rabin, had been assassinated by his own people. Yigal Amir, a Jew, was a suicide terrorist, acting on a death sentence. Only a holy man – a rabbi – can make the determination that a Jew can be killed. Not unlike the Fatwas issued amongst the Islamists. These emanate from a Mullah.

Some Orthodox leaders, such as Rabbi Yoel Bin-Nun, one of the founders of the right-wing Gush Emunin settlers group, tried to stop the madness among the rabbis, but even the establishment rabbis would not back him. Bin-Nun demanded that any rabbi who was involved in the din rodef ruling resign. He publicly denounced them as a threat to the endurance of Israel, saying that they had become revolutionary courts, like a Jewish Hezbollah.

The fundamental wing of Zionism, while certainly not representative of Judaism as a whole, was the most influential in Israel and was the ideological basis of the settler movement in the West Bank and Gaza. Rabin had described the Jewish fundamentalist fanatics as an errant seed that had nothing to do with Judaism. The Judaism to which Rabin was referring, was the Mosaic tradition, carried into the founding of the state of Israel by such followers of Tomahs Mendelssohn, as David Ben-Gurion, Abba Eban, and Rabin's peace partner, Shimon Peres.

However, the errant seed had been well injected into the religious and political life of the Jewish community in Palestine. Now it was spinning crazily out of control.

When Hamas teams were activated with Israel's clandestine backing, to target American assets in Europe and the Middle East, Floyd and Bill had known it was time to get out of the CIA if they were to retain their sanity and quite possibly their lives. They were tired of the dirty tricks and were implicated in killing people they admired and liked for the political aspirations of his own and other countries.

"What people would do for power." Sighing, Floyd put down his pipe in the ashtray, "and damn the role I played in it." It would forever haunt him as much as he tried to exorcise it.

Viable alternatives to the problem are known but rejected. The Jewish population could look in the direction of Egypt and create a new sovereign state in desert land that could be reclaimed. Egypt and the Arab Emirates have already worked on highly successful reclamation of arid land. The expanse of water would modify the climate of its aridity and would offer immediate opportunities for fishing and salt manufacture.

This would require Egypt being persuaded to yield territory at present uninhabitable within its borders. Surely the tribes of Abraham could work together to bring about a successful conclusion to this festering sore on the backside of the Middle East? Irrigation channels could originate from the Nile and another source would be tapping groundwater resources used by the Ancient Egyptians and Romans.

Along with plenty of species of drought resistant trees and shrubs which could be planted, fruit trees and cereal plants could be sown. It would cost a damn sight less than an ongoing war. Politicians can continue on their present destructive path which will never resolve the present cycle of violence. Nor will the deep rooted problems be resolved with the current policies of enslaving a people.

Chapter 73 – A Palestinian's life in the Twenty First century.

Yusuf"s father sat outside his home, communing with Allah and pondering his fate, which of late had been truly awful.

The Israelis had been laying siege to the village and the bulldozers were busy building blockades. Quite a lot of the houses are either one or two storied houses of varied architectural design. Some near the entrance have bullet holes in them and the families are sheltering with other families. There is the mosque, the shrine, the cemetery and a small school. There is a coffee shop in the village, but it is not doing good business at the moment, because of the curfew the Israelis have imposed. Cacti and fig, cypress, palm, and Christ's-thorn trees grow around the village and his gaze swept over the cattle, sheep and goats grazing.

"Is it not enough Allah that the Israeli soldiers Israeli military forces have attacked the village for weeks now? We have picked the indshir (figs) and they will spoil if we cannot take them to the town to sell. How can we do this when the soldiers will not let us out of our village all day and night and sometimes they will not even let us out of our houses. How can we feed the cows, milk them, make the leban (yoghurt)? Allah, you know we need to get to the town. Do you really want us to starve?

We live in a small village, we have a little land which our families have owned for generations. How do we harm people that the Israeli soldiers come and treat us so badly? Allah, they take our trucks and donkeys and when they return them everything is spoiled. They take our produce and throw them away, then break our jars. Am hammãle (I am the burden bearer) of my family and the burden is so heavy.

Allah, what have we Palestinians done to offend you so? And what have I done Allah, that you should have taken one of my sons to live in Paradise with you and leave his mother weeping in pain? This is the greatest pain of all."

But Allah did not answer Mustafa.

"We are proud our son is a martyr and we will stand up against the invaders for Palestine and our homes, but Allah all Yusuf did was try and make sure his mother and sisters and brothers were fed. He was no threat to them."

From the house comes the sound of his wife weeping as she rocks herself to and fro, grieving for her fourteen year old son. "If I had known he would be killed, I would not have let him leave the house."

"Mother, do not stop me," Yusuf had said, when he insisted on accompanying his father and two of the villagers to try to get to Nablus, to sell the crops and earn some money for the family. "We must take the figs to town before they spoil."

"You are too young to be on the road outside of curfew, when the soldiers have blockaded us in," his mother wailed and rocked backwards and forwards.

"I will be fine mother. I must go and look after my father."

The Israeli soldiers are reservists from the age of sixteen, who are called up for duty in the occupied territories. There is no dignity in their actions when they shoot children who throw stones at them. This is the mentality of bullies in the playground. Children are not meant to go to war and yet since time immemorial they have been sent off by men who stay safely behind, demanding they fulfil their duty.

"Allah, I must feed my family. I must try and get to the town. The animals need feed. We are desperate. We must try. Please protect us Allah." Mustafa cried out in his fear and with trepidation and great bravery, they had all set off, using donkeys to carry the jars of indshir, as they could not use the truck. Hopefully they could slip around the outside of the lines.

"We will go through the hills." Mustafa told his friends. "We will not go on the road in and out of the village, where the soldiers are posted."

They set off on their torturous journey with fear in their hearts, but they were men and would act like men instead of beaten donkeys. Donkeys are the lowest of all animals in the Arab world, as they are docile and obedient and will allow themselves to be whipped and take yet more

As cautious as they tried to be, soldiers caught them before they had travelled far, took them to their military camp which was not far away and locked them up for the rest of the night and next day. By the time they were released it was dusk again and the small band of intrepid salesmen were exhausted. Life was difficult enough without this additional harassment.

"We will keep the **hmar** (donkey) and the indshir (figs)," the soldiers sneered.

"You cannot do that. My family will starve," Yusuf challenged the soldiers.

"Hush son. Please, let us take them back to the village." Mustafa asked quietly, trying not to offend.

" **Hmar** **.** Go back to your hovel Gazan and be thankful we have not killed you. You have broken the curfew." A young soldier spat on the ground and insulted them. The soldiers delighted in calling the villagers **hmar** when they wanted to insult them, as this is the greatest insult that can be leveled against the Arabic male pride.

Yusuf walked up to the soldiers who raised their rifles at him, so he stopped short.

"Yusuf. Stop." Mustafa cried out in fear.

But Yusuf was fearless. "You come and steal our land and stop us earning a living, or having an education, you destroy our villages, but you will never beat us. You will never be able to destroy us, we will fight you until you leave our homeland."

With that the soldiers took the figs, so carefully packed in the jars, off the donkeys and poured them onto the ground in front of them.

Despairing Mustafa tried once more. "Please do not do this thing, there is no honor in this."

"What will you do about it Gazan **hmar?** " The soldiers trampled the indshir into mush, then threw the jars to the ground and smashed them.

Yusuf rushed at the soldiers and one aimed his rifle and shot Yusuf through the head." He fell to the ground and lay still.

"Stay back." The soldiers gestured towards the little band with their rifles.

"Let me tend to my son."

"Stay away." One of the soldiers bent down and lifted Yusuf"s eyelids and looked at his dead eyes, then looked back at Yusuf. "Stupid Gazan, now see what you made us do. First you break the curfew and then you attack us and make us shoot."

Bewildered Mustafa stood there looking at his son's still body. "Please let me have my son."

The soldiers moved back and gestured him forward. Mustafa walked quietly forward and knelt by his son. "Yusuf." He whispered. His two friends came forward and together they lifted Yusuf. "Please let us have the donkeys to take him home."

The soldiers laughed derisively. "One less mouth for you to feed."

"Please let me have my donkeys."

"You can take one, filthy Gazan."

Mustafa took the full weight of his son and cradling him, walked to the donkey and then gently laid him across the docile beast, whom he led out of the compound. "Be gentle with my son," he cautioned the animal. "How will I tell his mother?" he asked Allah.

As they walked home, other worries crowded in on him. 'How will we be able to sell the leban if we cannot get in to town and how can I buy more feed for my animals. Where can I find money to keep the family?' These unuttered thoughts raced through Mustafa's tired mind as he and his fellow travellers sadly retraced their steps.

When the villagers saw Yusuf lying lifeless over the donkey's back they began to wail and weep. Yusuf"s mother came to the door of the house and when she saw them, put a hand to her mouth, then threw her head back and wailed heartbreakingly.

As was the law, they buried Yusuf the next day to the sound of the women ululating, in the small cemetery which was looking tattered after the shelling. Then they mourned Yusuf for three days. But life must go on and Mustafa had to find the strength. The next day anger fuelled his courage and he returned with his friends to the military camp to ask for the return of the other donkeys. They turned him away empty handed, so he returned every day for a week until the soldiers finally gave him back his property.

The animals cried and bellowed with hunger when the feed ran out, as they still could not get into town to buy more. Each day, while the curfew continued, Mustafa had to throw away the leban. For a month and more he watched anxiously over the sheep and goats that the Israelis would not allow to graze.

There is much sorrow and weeping and wailing in the village, which has lost another of its sons.

Would that this was the story of a single village, but it is repeated daily in small villages all over Palestine.

Chapter 74 – New York early November 2006

In the meantime Basil had been seething with resentment against Colette. She had not been scared off by his desecration of her home. He would have to speak with the Cartel about his fears.

There was a meeting in New York to discuss future plans. Waiting until they had covered this ground, he asked for a private discussion with Ira.

"You believe what?" Ira was astounded. Never one to be at a loss for words, he turned from Basil to Amichan who had accompanied him, speechless for possibly the first time in his life.

The latter's olive skin noticeably paled. Leaning forward his hard gaze took in Basil's obvious anxiety. "Tell me everything."

Realizing he was well and truly in deep shit, although he tried to downplay his role in the discovery, Ira chimed in. "You're not telling us everything. I want to know how you found this out."

Basil turned a whiter shade of pale, his mind screaming out in naked fear as he faced what he knew to be two formidable opponents. Admitting his invasion of Colette's home he told them how he had discovered the new novel on the laptop and taken it with him. "After making sure it looked like a burglary. The police talked with me and discussed her accusations out of hand." He blustered.

The two men were astounded. The man was a raving psychopath. How on earth had he managed to become part of their Cartel? "Did you discuss our group and its purpose with your wife?" Ira no longer looked like a friendly rabbi. In fact he looked like an avenging angel who was thoroughly pissed off with the human race. All his prior doubts about Basil were roiling to the surface and he made no attempt to pull back, as he turned on the unfortunate man.

"No, no. I swear." Basil doubted he could smooth talk his way out of this and the only way to live another day was to be completely truthful. "I have no idea how she discovered it. In fact I am sure she hasn't. It's got to be crazy coincidence."

The tension hung in the air like a thick impenetrable cloud that threatened to freeze Basil's lungs and cause his untimely demise.

Ami's gaze bore into Basil as he brought more pressure to bear. "Crazy. This is apocalyptic. Have you left papers around she could have seen?"

Basil had never felt such fear in his life. He knew what Mossad was capable of.

"No I swear, they were always locked away in a safe in the office, never taken home." Frantically casting around to assure these two avenging angels sitting opposite him at bay, he had no doubt they would strike him down with flaming swords should be fail to pass this test.

"What about your computer? Have you taken any emails home in your briefcase?" Ira demanded.

"Never." Basil hurried to reassure them there was no wrongdoing on his part. "I always shred the emails immediately."

"Any correspondence should not lead to the group anyway." Ira narrowed his eyes and thoughtfully stroked his chin. "Usually they are instructions to contact one of us. Could your phone be tapped?"

"Good God no." Basil felt sick at the very thought. "Colette would not know where to begin to do such a thing. I know her well she would not do that."

The two men opposite him maintained such an icy calm, Basil doubted the temperature in an abattoir's freezes could be any colder and he was beginning to feel like one of the dead slabs of meat in one of them. God, how was he going to get out of this?

Sick with fear, he told them of her visit to the Palestinian refugee camps as well.

"Bring me the outline of the novel," Ami demanded.

"I have it right here." His stomach lurching, Basil leaned down, grabbed his briefcase and put it on the table. Drawing out a printed copy of the manuscript, he shakily handed it over to Ira.

"Leave it with us. We'll decide what to do about this." His face solemn, Ira waved his hand towards the door.

Basil knew he was being dismissed and rising from the table walked dejectedly to the door, hoping his dreams were not about to crash around his feet. As he closed the door behind him, Ira turned to Ami.

Ami picked up the manuscript. "I'll discuss this with Mossad."

"What should we do about Mortimer?" Ira was visibly concerned.

"Leave him in place for the moment. His emotions regarding his wife are out of control. I would rather he remained where we can keep an eye on him, for the moment. Ultimately he is not suitable for this group. The ramifications of his actions could seriously affect us. This must be taken further."

Chapter 75– The Hamptons early November 2006

It was another miserable autumn day and Colette had returned to her home after enjoying spending four days with Ellie and Floyd, determined Basil would not drive her from it. She had been able to support Ellie during the first shoot of her TV series, which had taken her mind off her immediate problems. Use

She felt secure knowing both Lorenzo and Floyd's shadows were keeping a 24 x 7 watch.

The raindrops were pattering against the window and the trees looked downcast. The ducks on the pond were the only ones happy with the cold rainy season. There was, however, a certain risk associated with autumn for ducks.

This was the duck hunting season. Emile had packed his trusty Purdy shotgun and was off to spend hours in the cold blinds at Three Mile Harbor, waiting for nature to ensure the annual migration of the birds, as fast as their wings would take them, to the warmer climates of South America and Asia.

The ducks were taking off, leaving the cold inhospitable months to the human beings. Time to flee from the human predators with guns. Life was becoming precarious for their survival. As if it wasn't bad enough trying to raise a young family, with feral and household felines, without the two legged ones having a go at them.

It all seemed a bit one sided to Colette as the ducks were not packing pistols. "How can you kill them Emile?" she scolded him.

"We've domesticated them and they have become a pest. We need to cull them."

Dropping her lower lip and looking soulful, Colette was still not comfortable with the annual slaughter.

"Look how happy Hannibal is."

Emile's red setter hound was so excited at the prospect of being useful he was beside himself. The breed is skittish and not known for its high intelligence.

"Can't say he's the best watchdog in the world, but he'll love you to death." Emile promised as they took Hannibal for long walks. He gallumped along, beautiful silken coat swaying as he bounded ahead of them investigating anything and everything, and then trotting back for approval.

"Why on earth did you call him Hannibal?" Colette was thinking of the villain in Silence of the Lambs, played so convincingly by Anthony Hopkins.

"Because he's capable of going great distances, even over huge alps." Emile grinned at her and patted the animal who was ecstatic at the attention.

Anyway, the duck hunting was a male hunter gatherer thing and it would certainly taste fine roasted gently basted in red wine, juniper berries and star anise spice. It would taste even better, with the locally made Channing Perrine Old Vine Vineyard Fleu de la Terre Rose, which Colette had been lucky enough to have cellared in 2002.

A self satisfied grin splitting his face from ear to ear, Emile and Rusty arrived at the French doors leading onto the deck, complete with a brace of ducks, duly dressed.

"Well, well, the hunter home from the hills," Colette teased, now they were so comfortable with each other. "My very own hunter-gatherer." Walking into the kitchen he placed them on the bench.

Emile had offered to dress the bird before proffering them as fine dining. "As long as you don't want me to stuff the feathers into handmade duvets." Colette had gone off into peals of laughter.

"If times get tough, we might have to resort to that my lady." Catching her around the waist, he had kissed her hard. Colette had twirled out of reach and ran into the living room, flopping down into one of the large armchairs. Hannibal had sat down on the floor at her feet.

"A couple for you." Emile sauntered proudly into the room. "One to cook for the starving hunter and his hound. The other to put down in the freezer."

"I've got a superb wine to go with it." Colette showed him the bottle and he nodded approvingly. "I'll put the duck on slowly and in one hour, we should pull the cork and allow this to breathe."

"I'll go up and shower. It was cold down there." Emile was well rugged up in duck hunting warm country gear.

"I'll put the duck in the oven and prepare the sweet potatoes to go with it." Colette heard the shower running in the main bedroom suite, as she prepared the meal. When all was ready and the duck was meeting its fate, she went upstairs. Entering the bedroom as Emile came in from the bathroom, hair still damp from the shower, she pulled the bath sheet off him.

"Hmmmm. Must have been cold out there."

"But I'm warming up fast," he promised as he grabbed her. True to his word, his sword rose obediently. "Time before we eat?"

"Absolutely. Even time to baste." Throwing a coquettish look his way, she stroked him.

"I'm going to baste you." And Emile began to lick her body as they stood in the middle of the room.

"Emile."

"Mmmm." He sleepily answered, satiated and content.

"Shall we wander up to the vineyards tomorrow for some tastings? I need to add a few bottles to the cellar."

"Sounds a great idea." He dozed off as Colette slipped out of bed, showered and went down to prepare the meal her man had gathered for them.

She had settled down after the invasion of her home, determined no-one would spoil it for her.

After her trip to the refugee camps in Palestine, she felt she had grown more of a backbone.

In the morning, the sun deigned to peek out behind some clouds. Whilst watery and half hearted it would do. "We won't notice the cold by the time we visit a couple of the vineyards. Let's go to Channings and then on to the Wolffer Estate."

"I'll prepare a good breakfast, so we have a lining on our stomachs." Colette promised.

The duck they ate the previous night had been superb and there was enough left for that evening meal. As Colette scooted around the kitchen, making hash browns, which she roasted in the oven with some Canadian bacon and tomatoes, Emile whipped up some scrambled eggs and toasted slices of sourdough.

"God, we won't be able to move after this." Colette groaned contentedly as she made coffee in the espresso machine. Taking the coffee from the grinder, she scooped it into the double basket and tamped it down. Black for Emile and Vienna for herself.

As they stepped outside the door, a flock of ducks took off from the Pond and they watched them fly South. "They've got the right idea." Colette laughed and pointed to their perfect V formation. "Amazing isn't it?"

"Nature is a wonderful thing."

"I'm pleased Amagansett has a Wildlife Refuge for the migratory birds, even if you take advantage of this."

"We don't touch the long tailed ducks and other protected species." Emile defended his hunting as they gathered their things and went outside.

They sped down the highway to the first of the vineyards. The morning passed slowly as they tasted first whites and then some reds, talking about anything and nothing.

After purchasing a few bottles, they meandered off to Wolffers' vineyards where they again tasted and purchased.

"Now what?" Emile asked, rubbing his hands to warm them as they walked outside.

"You should have brought your gloves." Colette's hands were warmly encased in woolen mittens to match the beanie on her head. Warm slacks and a cashmere sweater, topped with a thigh length wool jacket kept her warm.

"They're in the car."

"So.... What now?" Grinning mischievously as she ran to the car, she dared him as he caught her round the waist. "How about another tasting at home?"

"Best idea you've had all day. Great way to keep warm." Grabbing his hands, she tucked them into the pockets of her jacket.

Her man kissed her on the nose. "I love you."

"Prove it," she whispered.

"As soon as we get home." His voice was husky with promise. "It's too cold to ravish you amongst the trees."

Life settled into a steady routine with bursts of turmoil as her publishers clamored for her attention, editing, reviewing, proofing. Putting together a promotional plan for signings in book stores all over the country, interviews, and press releases.

Chapter 76 – New York early November 2006

By now Basil was losing touch with reality where Colette was concerned. In his twisted mind he had convinced himself she had gone too far and people would know he had been rejected by her for another man.

The advance publicity for her book had appeared and now she would be making personal and TV appearances to promote it. Her paramour would be with her, flaunted for the entire world to see. Well New York was his town, no longer hers to share with him. Now she would pay.

Several schemes had run through his mind during the past couple of months. Some he rejected as too risky, he had to protect himself at all costs now the Cartel was aware of the danger.

"Time to kill her." His deranged mind grappled around with scenarios of torture and bleeding, ignoring possible consequences. Just as well it was after hours and his secretary and most of the staff had left for the day. Thank God for different time zones in investment banking. The work never stopped but he had to figure out a way to take care of Colette and be careful not to expose himself. Pacing the floor, his rage mounted until his chest felt constricted and his breathing grew shallow and fast.

He knew her movements. When she was coming to New York for the launching of her new book. Once he had been a part of the excitement and spotlight. Now someone else would be at her side. It was more than he could bear.

Seating himself at the desk and drumming his fingers on the leather embossed blotter holder, he decided he needed an intermediary. It would not be done for him to be seen at the Plaza. He was too well known there.

Stretching out his arm, his hand reached for the telephone and he made the call to one of the interesting contacts he had been introduced to in New York recently. The sort that would do anything for money and that he now had plenty of. Enough to grease the palms of the two or three people who would enable swift and easy access for a maintenance man to Colette's room. One who would deliver his surprise gift.

Chapter 77 – New York mid November 2006

Life was ramping up and things were moving fast. The couple were back in New York as it was time for the promotion of the launch of Colette's new novel and the publishers had put them into the Plaza hotel. With its glorious views of Manhattan and across Central Park, it was another of her favorite hotels.

"I'm going to run a bath and have a long soak. I'm exhausted." Colette stirred. "You stay here and relax."

"Maybe I'll join you."

"I'll run it and wash my hair in the shower first, and then I'll send for you." Walking away, she let the invitation linger in the air.

Turning on the water and leaving it to run, she took the cleansing lotions out of her vanity case and set them up on the bench in front of the large mirror. The maid had unpacked her toiletries and put out her special soaps on the bath and in the shower, together with her special shampoo. Picking up the Wish bath salts and oils, she poured them into the bath leaving it to fill.

Moving over to the shower stall, she turned on the taps, tested the water and stepped in. Standing under the jets she allowed the hot water to cascade over her hair and body to soothe and ease the tension. Taking down the shampoo, she poured a little into her hand and began to massage it into her hair. A stinging sensation on her head and hands alarmed her.

Puzzled, she looked down at her hand. To her amazement, she saw blood on her hand. It mixed with the water on her head and ran down her face and body onto the white tiles. Bemused, she automatically picked up the bar of soap laying on the soap tray and rubbed it down her arms to wash off the blood. The lovely fragrance soothed her senses as she lathered both arms.

Suddenly white hot pain shoots into her hand and down her arm as more blood pours on to the tiles. Feeling faint and nauseated, she stands stock still with shock and utters a cry.

"Colette, What's wrong?" Emile came running into the bathroom, whipped open the glass door and gazed in amazement at the blood. "What the hell." Pulling himself together, he looked at the bar of soap in her hand. "Stand still, stand very still Colette," he instructed her and steps into the shower turning off the water.

Grabbing a hand towel, he carefully lifted the soap from her hand. More blood poured from cuts on her hand and arm, as she looked at him in horror.

"My head. My head," she cried. Watery blood was dripping down from her hair.

Horrified, he sees slashes down her arm and on her wrists. Turning he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her wrist, thanking God the slashes were not on the top of her arm. It would have been very difficult to stop the bleeding had the arteries on top of her wrists been deeply cut. Thankfully she was bleeding out from the underside of her wrist and this he could control.

Very carefully Emile eased her out of the shower, grabbed a large towel and wrapped it around her to keep her warm, knowing she was in shock. Nevertheless he must hurry. Next he grabbed another bath towel and wrapped it gently around her head. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her into the bedroom and laid her on the bed. "Stay there, do not move."

Running to his wardrobe he grabbed two ties he had brought. "Thank God I packed them." Tying above the slashes, he made tourniquets to stem the bleeding.

Returning to the bathroom, he turned his attention to the bar of soap and carefully scraped at it with a pair of scissors from his toilet bag; he saw strips of razor blades buried into the soap.

"Jesus Christ." His horrified cry burst out of him before he could stop it. Turning it over, he saw more buried under the opposite surface. Thinking furiously, he grabbed a hand towel and tipped a little of the shampoo bottle into the basin. Horrified, he saw small shards of glass in the sticky liquid. Finally his presence of mind took over and hearing the bathwater filling he turned off the taps to avoid the bathroom being flooded.

Grabbing the first aid kit he always carried with him, he raced back into the bedroom and checked the cuts on her hands. "Thank God they're not too deep. I'm going to ring for an ambulance. Then I will dress you."

Grabbing the phone he made the call and placed another to the police.

"I'll meet you at the hospital," he told them.

Gently, he opened the towels and checked her hands for shards of glass. Finding small ones, he made the decision to leave them for the doctors to remove. Carefully searching her hair, he made the same decision.

"I'm going to leave the towels on your hands and hair, but I want to dress you now."

Dumbly Colette looked at him beseechingly and whimpered, shivering uncontrollably.

"I know darling. I'm here. Lie still. I'm just going to get you some clothes."

She tried to cling to reality. Reason and the ability to remain calm might help her overcome the terror she felt. Try as she might it was beyond her reach. This was a surreal nightmare.

Going to the closet, he selected a pair of soft drawstring cotton slacks and a loose fitting cotton sweater with a scooped neckline that he could get over her head. Opening drawers, he grabbed panties, then gently removed the towel and dressed her.

"I don't have to ask who the hell would do this, but I'm going to get you to the hospital and safety first." Cradling her gently, his face is a cold mask. "How am I going to prove this bastard is a psychopath?"

Looking down he saw Colette is ashen white. Agonizing, he slammed his hand down on the bedside table.

"The fucking bastard, I'll kill him." Emile was outraged. "If the police do not arrest and hold him this time, I'll kill him."

"He'll get out of this again. I know he will," Colette whispered, as the tears streamed down her face and she sobbed uncontrollably. "What am I going to do?"

"You'll stay with Uncle Lorenzo after you leave the hospital until we resolve this matter. I'm going to stop him, I promise you." His eyes were steely and his mouth set with resolve.

Raising her tearstained face to his, she plaintively cried. "Why does he hate me so much? What did I do?"

"You did nothing." Emile carefully gathered her into his arms. "The bastard is sick. Really sick, but he's not getting away with this."

Colette then lost touch with reality and closed down.

Hearing the wail of a siren approaching in the street, Emile rang down to the front desk telling them what had happened and to send the paramedics straight up to the room.

"The cuts are quite deep." The doctor at the hospital told Emile. "We'll need to keep her in here. This may needs skin grafts. She's in deep shock; I'm going to keep her sedated."

"She's not safe here." Emile was distraught.

The police arrived and after taking his statement, they asked him to accompany them to the hotel room. "No, I won't leave her. I know who did this and he'll try again. He's barking mad."

"Sir we need to go to the crime scene. We have to have you with us. This will not take long."

"I'm not leaving her."

"Well we cannot go the crime scene without you."

"Can't you put a guard outside her door?"

"Sir, there doesn't appear to be any immediate threat. She will be safe in the hospital."

"You can't believe that." Turning on the detective he raised his voice. "Arrest this bastard then."

"Sir we have to see what has happened and who you're accusing. The longer we remain here arguing the less will be done."

"Well I'm coming straight back here after we have finished. How long will that take?"

"Sooner we get there the sooner we can finish up."

"I'm waiting until they move her into a private room."

Chapter 78 – New York mid November 2006

Reluctantly leaving Colette once she had been relocated, he accompanied the police to the Plaza. Whilst they were going over the events in the hotel room, he lifted the phone and called Floyd.

"I'm scared shitless, don't know how to protect her." Downcast, his voice on the telephone betrayed his feeling of helplessness.

"Emile, I'll make sure someone keeps an eye on her. Let the police go through the motions." Floyd did his best to calm the distraught man. "I'm on my way to the hospital right now. Be there within the hour. Colette will be alright with the doctors and nurses around her. This will give me time to make some arrangements."

Emile thanked him, finished up with the police and left them in the suite, returning to the hospital. Colette lay in bed bandaged and sedated. Quietly he sat beside her, his hand on her body, to let her know he was close by and protecting her.

As promised, Floyd arrived within the hour. His face set in stone once he saw Colette. "Someone will be here by midnight. Best I can do."

"Then I will not leave her side until then."

"Emile, you won't help Colette if you are tired and ill in the morning." Floyd tried to get through to the profoundly disturbed man. "Go back to the hotel and get some sleep, she is safe. Basil will not try anything here, It's too exposed."

Emile's jaw set stubbornly. "I don't trust him. I'm going to remain."

"Trust me." Floyd implored him. "I'll come back to the hotel with you and we can have a drink together. Calm you down. You look like hell. A reaction will set in shortly and you must get some rest yourself if you are going to be any use to Colette over the next few days. They could be rough if she needs skin grafts."

During his career with the CIA, Floyd had seen injuries no man should ever see and knew how stressful it was for the families. Placing a reassuring arm around Emile, he gently led him out of the room while the latter pleaded, "They have to get him. Stop him this time Floyd."

Back at the Plaza, they returned to the suite, the police having finished with the scene. Emile was disconsolate, sitting with his head in his hands, looking at the floor and seeing nothing.

"If the police don't, then I will Emile." Another promise Floyd intended to keep.

Emile looked at him gratefully, relaxing for the first time since the incident.

"His lawyers have a lot of clout my friend and he will have a water tight alibi. He won't have carried this out himself. It's going to be very difficult to prove."

"But what about all the other incidents? Running her off the road at Sag Harbor, breaking into her house. The finger points squarely to him." Emile was now a firm believer that Basil was the perpetrator of these vile acts. No more doubts.

"They were not proven. He had an alibi for each incident. These people are bulletproof because of their contacts. If the Bank has any doubts, they can't afford a scandal. They'll lawyer up and bury this. Quietly get rid of Basil. Send him back to England probably."

"Floyd, that won't stop him. She isn't safe with him around." Emile was becoming more and more depressed. "I can't protect her. He has too much clout around him. What the hell am I going to do?" He had never felt so powerless.

"Leave it to me, I will see she is protected and I will stop him. I promise."

After Floyd bid him farewell, he returned to the hospital to meet with the bodyguard.

In the suite alone Emile sat down and rubbed his face with his hands. Then putting his head in his hands, he wept for Colette, his love.

Chapter 79 – Basil and the NYPD

"How dare you come here accusing me of such a ridiculous thing. I'm getting very tired of these unwarranted accusations. I'm ringing my lawyer." The police had bearded the ageing lion in his den. Basil stood up and telephoned his attorney.

"Say nothing until I get there." Were the instructions he was obeying to the letter.

It was awkward sitting there with the detective who simply stared at him. Damned if he would let some bumbling NYPD oaf intimidate him. They could trace nothing back to him. Let them check the hotel security cameras which would prove he had not been anywhere near the damn place.

The doorbell rang and Basil let his attorney in. "Let's go into the study. I want to talk to you first." His attorney led the way with an aside. "Wait here until I have spoken to my client."

"Here we go again," the detective thought. "I'm fed up with these rich bastards literally getting away with murder."

Once inside the other room, the attorney turned to Basil. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Look, she's unstable." Basil hid behind his obfuscations. "A writer for Christ's sake. Do you think I'd put myself and career in jeopardy for some stupid bitch?"

"I sincerely hope not." The attorney leaned over Basil who had seated himself in an armchair. "There is more at stake here than you and your reputation. Tell me the truth." Personally he believed Basil's plausibility left a great deal to be desired. Acting for many wealthy clients, he was well aware of their peccadilloes and somewhat unsavory practices. Still, as a partner in the law firm that represented Ambrose, his bonuses depended on the business he brought in. Ambrose had been a coup.

He shrugged off his doubts and uncertainties. As defense attorneys their clients paid them to prove their innocence, no matter what they personally believed. The wall the rich had built between themselves and the rest of the world was meant to be inviolate and it took a lot to break down the code of silence.

"I haven't been near her house." Glib lies rolled off Basil's tongue with ease. "How could I have gotten near her toiletries for heaven's sake?"

The attorney digested this. Many people were for hire in this city. "I provided you with the alibi you asked for, when you wanted to refute any suggestion you tried to run her off the road in the Hamptons. Were you responsible for that? Don't lie to me."

"I just wanted to give her a fright," Basil reluctantly admitted, rising from the chair.

"And what else."

"Nothing, I would not lower myself."

"Did you break into her house at any time?" the attorney pressed.

"Of course not." Basil drew himself up to his full height, looking every inch the wronged dignified patrician.

The lawyer suspended his disbelief for now. "We've got good criminal lawyers on staff. I want to talk to one. In the meantime, we'll have the NYPD pull back. Use the mayor if we have to."

Basil could hardly contain his delight as the long arm of the Bank protected him. "I should think so."

"I want you to leave town for a while."

"For how long? I've got delicate negotiations going on at the moment."

"Then make them out of town. I want these rumors defused. The Bank is not going to be too impressed if the media get hold of this. Your wife has a high profile as a leading author. They'll love this."

"They wouldn't dare insinuate that I am responsible." Basil looked a little shaky at this suggestion.

"They'll have a damn good try. I'll have to threaten litigation at any hint of danger and I don't want to call in favors all the time. I don't have any clout with the gutter magazines, so get out of town whilst we put out the fire."

"I'll arrange something," Basil haughtily agreed.

Giving him a cursory glance, the attorney stood up and started walking towards the door. Christ, looking after these wealthy psychopaths was exhausting. They would have to rein this one in. Fast. "I'm going to talk to the detective. Say absolutely nothing to the police or anyone else." Knowing how arrogant Basil could be, he did not want him getting the NYPD's back up. It would make them dig in their toes.

Returning to the drawing room, he confronted the hapless detective. "How dare you come to my client's home, embarrassing him. What proof do you have?"

The NYPD detective looked at him coldly. "This is the third time a complaint has been made against your client."

"For which my client provided perfectly sound alibis."

"It's strange these coincidences keep happening to his wife, now they have separated." Tired of the rich continually evading justice, the detective was hanging on in there. He had a feeling about this one,

The lawyer continued "and why should he be hounded? He is simply getting on with his life? Anyone could have run her off the road. Sag Harbor is miles away from New York. The second incident was merely a burglary. Your department, more than anyone, is aware that crime everywhere is growing more violent and brutal every day. Most of it senseless."

"His wife is convinced he is behind these attacks and you have to admit it's suspicious. Who else would have reason to wish her harm?" The detective was twirling a set of keys in his right hand.

"Any number of people in this ugly world of ours. You're in a position to know this better than anyone else." The attorney sneered at him.

"We have to investigate all possible leads." The detective retorted as the keys twisted round and round, which Basil and the attorney found very disconcerting.

"and have you any proof my client was involved?" the latter challenged.

"Not yet." Watching Basil carefully, the detective played it low key.

"I thought not. Now leave my client alone or I'll sue the department. The mayor will hear of this if you continue to harass him."

With his Irish background the detective knew the score. This stuck up limey guy had a heavy hitter here, who was well known to the department. With his Irish background, the detective knew "You may have friends in high places Mr. Mortimer." Leaving the warning hanging in the air as he proceeded to the door, the detective turned for one last remark. "We'll be watching you from now on. Money does not mitigate murder."

"If you continue to harass my client, the mayor will be on the phone to your commander so quickly, you won't even see the foot that boots you off the force." His attorney's voice rang out arrogantly.

Two birds of a feather, both cut from the same cloth. One law for the rich and one for everyone else, the detective sighed. Nothing changed in New York City.

Chapter 80 – Tel Aviv mid November 2006

Ira and Ami were livid. Basil had not had a pleasant time of it when Ami called him on the phone, the day after the incident and confronted him. Despite the lies tumbling out his mouth, like the waterfall outside the men's room in Mad Ludwig's Sleeping Beauty Castle in Bavaria (now that's a sight to behold when taking a piss), the agent did not believe a word that came out of his mouth and Basil knew it.

"What made you think we would trust you to take matters into your own hands? Do you think our reasoning is as enfeebled as your own?" Ami told him sardonically.

Although they were separated by an international phone line, the tension was so palpable Basil felt it could reach out to flay him into 1000 small pieces. Desperately he sought to make amends, but he realized he was spinning his wheels.

When Ami reported back to Ira, they realized matters were spinning out of control. Basil was in danger of exposing them all.

"Of course he is behind this latest attack on her. Thank God we had both of them watched." Ira paced the floor his normally cool demeanor in tatters. "He'll bring us down unless we do something about him."

"It's in hand." Ami reassured him.

"Where the hell is the famous British Reserve?" Lemontov growled, concerned the strands were unraveling. "You expect the Russians, particularly the Ukrainians, to be volatile lunatics, but this Englishman is a loose cannon. I was concerned about his feud with Korshanenko, but this affair with his wife is endangering us all."

Ami ran a hand through his hair. The strain was getting to him. "A Stinger missile up his ass should put him right." If he had the chance he would happily have consigned Basil to hell right now.

"Save us the cost of a missile if the Russian took care of him." Ira was beyond annoyed. "He'll have to go. We can't really tolerate any more disruption, he's only been on board for fifteen months, but he's a dangerous fool. We'll have to get him ousted. It's him or the Russian and the Russians are too important to our success.

"It's no contest. His masters will understand. They'll also be aware this will be their last chance. He's a puffed up cretin, with an inflated opinion of his own importance in the world. Now, he's history." Ami had no doubt what the outcome would be.

"Leave that to us." Ami responded. "The British Foreign Office doesn't want this exposure any more than we do. When's the next shipment due out of Sierra Leone?"

"Next month. I'll arrange the mules as usual. But we've got to get them through the system. Could we replace him in time?"

"If necessary we delay the next shipment. Give the British time. Mossad has already discussed this with them."

Ira was perplexed. Being well protected by the agency, he was unused to feeling under threat from the inside. "How did we ever let a viper inside the group?"

Ami dismissed this with a wave of his hand. "It was a matter of expedience. With Norman's unexpected death, we needed a replacement quickly. We relied on their discretion. Normally they get it right."

"Oi Vey." Ira reverted back to his Jewish roots. "Yahweh protect us from allies and fools."

"It's imperative I find out what this woman knows as well." Ami responded. "Stay calm."

Ira spun around, his brow furrowing as he realized Colette could be a threat. "I agree. What do you have in mind?"

"The less you know the better. I will tell you what I find out."

Ira left well enough alone. A man who kept a low profile, he felt uncomfortably vulnerable as Basil drew attention to himself and ultimately his associates.

He then raised a hand in salute. "For Israel."

Which Ami acknowledged with a nod of his head.

Chapter 81 – Tel Aviv mid November 2006

Ami met with his superiors and outlined the plan he had in mind.

"We approve Ami. Go ahead."

Ami had flown into New York that morning and now walked nonchalantly through the hospital corridor until he found the room he was looking for. Scoping the corridor he ensured no one was around and eased open the door to the nearest supply room. Slipping inside, he chose a pair of hospital whites, top and bottom and swiftly put them on over his own clothes, to give him cover as he moved around the hospital. Helping himself to a stethoscope he draped it around his neck.

It had not been difficult to obtain the location of Colette's private room. Taking the stairs to the floor, he opened the fire door and peered cautiously around before stepping out into the corridor. To his relief the nurses' station was unmanned. As it was the middle of the night, there was no one around in the sleeping hospital.

Ami had moved swiftly. Knowing the police had not posted someone outside her door, he boldly walked into the room where Colette was vulnerable. In case any hospital staff should appear, he slipped the lock on the door.

She was lying in the bed, hooked up to machines and bandaged. Heavily sedated she did not stir as he entered. Knowing he had little time, he took a vial out of his pocket.

Treading lightly, he knew administering the second sedative that was essential to get the truth from her, would have adverse effects, perhaps lethal, when mixed with the one she had already been given. As this would be counterproductive, he took the line from the saline drip and emptied the contents into it. Knowing she would be sedated, he had chosen Caffeine Citrate over amphetamine as a stimulant to arouse her.

As she began to stir, Colette became agitated. Taking a hypodermic and a second vial from his pocket, he injected her in the arm with scopolamine. Now she would be helpless to resist any questioning.

Using scopolamine as a truth serum was common amongst intelligence agencies. Ami was a skilled interrogator. As the drug took hold, he took her through a series of questions to determine whether she had gleaned any information about the Cartel and its machinations from Basil. When she responded in the negative, he phrased the questions to find out where the idea to write about blood diamonds had come from and how she had obtained so much knowledge about them.

To his surprise she confirmed that this was a coincidence. There was no doubt about it. Her passion had been aroused by articles she had read from the Internet, and her friend Emile.

Probing deeper, Ami believed the story she had woven had indeed come from her own creative mind. He knew a massive amount of information was readily available from many sources on the Web. It would have been a simple matter to piece together a plot, the players who would be required for the illicit trafficking and the end purposes the gem stones were generally used for.

Ami realized he was running out of time and being satisfied with Colette's responses decided it was time to leave.

Suddenly his sharp hearing picked up the sound of voices outside the room so he quickly unlocked the door and slipped into the adjacent. Having just closed the door, he heard the sound of the outside door opening and someone walked softly into the room. A male voice softly reassured Colette she would be safe, and then the person left the room. Cautiously he stepped into the room to hear murmuring voices immediately outside.

Listening carefully, he recognized the voice, as that of the person who had spoken to Colette, so he remained vigilant until he heard soft footsteps in the hallway leading away from the room. Very quietly and cautiously he opened the door of the room. To his dismay, it appeared protection had arrived and was seated on a chair outside. His rigorous training kicked in and the unseen traveler of many missions infiltrating enemy territory without a hint of his presence, rose up and took over. Having been taught to respond quickly and disable any threat that presented itself, his lightning fast reflexes came into action. Before the surprised agent could respond, Ami chopped his hand down on his neck and Colette's guardian angel was cut down.

A voice was raised in alarm. Looking up he saw the nurses' station was now manned and he was being challenged. There was no time to delay now. Swiftly he ran down the corridor, accessed the fire stairs and quickly made his way outside. Merging with the shadows as he had been trained, he became one with them, making his way back to where he had concealed a motorbike. Mounting, he sped away, leaving confusion and questions in his wake.

The nurse had run to assist the downed man. As he was still unconscious, she returned to the station and raised the alarm calling for help. Realizing it was futile to try to apprehend the intruder she focused on the people who needed her immediate care. Again checking the agent, who began to moan and open his eyes, she stayed by his side until security officers arrived and when the nurse pointed to the exit door, they followed Ami's escape route. To no avail.

Medical assistance arrived and the agent was placed on a gurney, then taken down to emergency to check he was not concussed. Meanwhile the duty doctor arrived and checked Colette, who was extremely agitated and her brow was beaded with perspiration. Gently the doctor and nurse raised her as she vomited on the bed. Concerned at this reaction, he checked her pupils and vital signs. What he saw concerned him.

Reluctant to administer more drugs until he knew what had caused her condition, he keenly ran his eyes over her arms and body. Noticing a tiny speck of blood on her arm he suspected she had been injected with an unknown substance. Calling for the nurse to take blood samples, these were rushed downstairs to the laboratory while they monitored Colette.

Within an hour the results were to hand. Traces of scopolamine and caffeine citrate were found. Only one way the stimulant could have found its way into her system, they immediately disconnected the saline bag and a fresh one was set up. All they could do now was to wait until this flushed the drugs out of her system. It was pointless to administer others to fight the effects.

Floyd was contacted after the agent had roused and been declared fit, at which time he told the hospital who they should telephone. When they had spoken to him, they called the police to report this latest incident. This time protection was offered but Floyd turned it down. He would rather rely on his own choice of men who would be ever more vigilant after the latest attack. At this point Floyd called Emile who was devastated.

"Who was it? Who would do such a thing to her?" he cried out as a white hot rage seared its way into his heart, burning through his guts like acid. "I'll kill anyone who comes anywhere near her."

Although Floyd had a pretty fair idea who the intruder could be, he would not burden Emile with this knowledge and kept it to himself. All the while reassuring the distressed man the very best protection would be assigned to Colette.

"I don't trust anyone to protect her in the hospital. I'm getting her out of there." Emile had reached flash point. The events of the last few months were so outlandish he could barely grasp they had occurred.

Nerves screaming from every point of his body, he felt transfixed like Michelangelo's Vitruvian man. Pinned to the floor. Unable to move while the neurons pulsed agony to every part of his body.

This would not help Colette. Desperately he forced his tortured mind to direct his body to move. Reaching for the telephone he called his Uncle Lorenzo.

"She will come here Emile. I will set up a hospital room here with 24/7 care and guards around the clock."

"Uncle I cannot thank you enough. I could not think of a safer haven than with you."

"You have done the right thing. I will ensure the hospital releases her and will send a private ambulance first thing in the morning to bring her here."

Emile released some more of the tension from his taut body.

"I will arrange for someone very discreet to ensure her safety, Emile. Please do not worry. I like this woman and I give you my word she will be safe."

"Uncle Lorenzo, I fear for her life and I need her in mine."

"Emile, my nephew. You have never let us help you before. I am delighted you have turned to me in your hour of need. Believe me, I will allow no further harm to befall her."

"Thank you Uncle. I am in your debt."

"You owe me no debt nephew. We are family. We look after our own."

### Chapter 82 – Boston November 2006

Picking up the remote, Floyd switched on the TV to watch some CNN news. The scenes of rioting in Iraq were depressingly familiar.

The present and ongoing conflict in Iraq was about oil supplies and friends in the Middle East. Today it was the Israelis and Saudis, tomorrow it would be whoever could benefit them most.

Recalling the heady days of the reign of the Shah of Persia, when the Shah had made his stand against Big Oil as chairman of OPEC, Floyd slowly shook his head in dismay. No way were the oil barons about to let a camel jockey take back control of the Middle East oil supplies and dictate the cost to the west. Reza Pahlavi's glory days were numbered. Bringing back Khomeini had been one of the worse blunders the CIA had made.

Based on this episode, Floyd certainly hoped, but doubted, that things would calm down in Iraq.

His country had backed Saddam Hussein in power, with strict instructions to keep the Shi'ites down, after the disaster in Iran. No way could they afford another Khomeini stirring up the Iraqi Shi'ites and risk losing the oil supplies from that area. In those days, Russia was still a power with the cold war and was sniffing around, looking to control the oil in the Middle East which would have been a disaster for America, she could not afford to be locked out.

Hussein and the United States had fallen out when his arrogance and self adulation became too much for his allies and he built one too many palaces for one man to inhabit. This led to a bitterly contested divorce when he had not learned his lesson after the separation following the first Gulf War. All this despite rumors that Bush the elder had given Hussein his blessing to attack the Kurds.

An early meeting with Allah in heaven had been Hussein's reward.

Israel is America's important ally in an unstable area. Even Bill was beginning to have serious doubts about US Foreign Policy and its implications for the world at large, as Bush junior re-ignited Daddy's war, engaging in acts of state terrorism.

Floyd had met Osama bin Laden when he was trained by the CIA in Afghanistan. Al Qaeda was an ideology, not a terrorist organization. Needing a scapegoat for the Twin Towers disaster, when the government had ignored the warnings from the FBI and CIA, Bush focused on Osama bin Laden and Al Qaeda to detract from the economic woes of America, and foment hatred against a new enemy.

How embarrassing it had been when Bush and Tony Blair, the Prime Minister of England, had simply overridden the objections of the world and invaded Iraq against the United Nations Resolution, thus earning both men the disapproval and disgust of the world. Everyone who

mattered knew there were no weapons of mass destruction and Floyd and Bill had known this would be uncovered, leaving an even greater stain against the country they loved. They had all been complicit.

He bitterly regretted the ongoing suffering of the Iraqi people, which would forever remain a blemish against his country. His career had been based on protecting it at all costs but he could continue no longer when the citizens of the USA had funded the war in Iraq and received not one cent in return. Billions of dollars for the rebuilding of the country had fallen into the deep pockets of the Bush family's friends and associates, making them even more obscenely wealthy.

Floyd had found it highly embarrassing when a statement was made in the online website of Der Spiegel newspaper, by respected US Economist and Nobel Prize Laureate George A. Akerlof.

"I think this is the worst government the United States has ever had, in its more than 200 years of history. It has engaged in extraordinarily irresponsible policies not only in foreign policy and economics but also in social and environmental policy," said the 2001 Nobel Prize laureate who teaches economics at the University of California in Berkeley. How America was going to overcome the scorn being heaped on it, remained to be seen.

Filling his pipe once more and lighting up, Floyd was philosophical about the current friction between different factions of Hezbollah, Hamas and Israel. Hamas continues to send their martyrs into Israel as suicide bombers, as the last means of a desperate people. Not all Hamas leadership agrees with these actions, but faced with the futility of the situation, make no protest.

Dedicated to claiming back their freedom, Palestinians support Hamas, who have also created welfare clubs, organizations to help poor families, organizations to help the families of martyrs, health clinics; and a women's organization who even take some part in the leadership.

It had taken time to extricate himself and seek refuge in the hallowed halls of academia but here he sought to make amends and seek peace within his guilt ridden soul.

"Oh well, "he sighed once more. "Back to the current problem."

He believed he was reasonably sure of the players in the scheme Basil was involved with and intended to dig deeper

Reluctantly Floyd stirred and reaching out for the phone, made a call to Bill. "Check your guns at the door pardner, 'cos we're off into the wild west again."

"Just a minute." Bill was in his study and got up to close the door quietly. Annie would flay him alive if she thought he was involved in any more Spooksville antics. "What's up?" Seating himself in the large leather chair behind the desk, he turned to look out the window at the fading light.

"Shit," he said after Floyd had filled him in.

"Precisely. I guess we'd better get in touch with Dvir Ury at the embassy in Washington and have a chat." Rising to pace the floor, he held the portable phone to his ear. An old habit when under stress, but one too hard to break.

"The girls will eat us alive if we go down to Washington. See if he'll come up here?"

Chapter 83 – New York November 2006

Three days later Bill and Floyd drove into New York to meet a man from Mossad at Bill's club. It suited him to maintain the membership because you never knew when you might need to call in some outstanding dues. In Cambridge they would draw attention to themselves. In New York, in a private room, in a private club, they couldn't be overhead or seen together. Leave no tracks on the bear hunt.

"It's good to see you again sir," the club steward greeted them. "How are you enjoying life in retirement?"

"It suits me very well thank you Lewis." Bill was pleased to see that although gone, he was not forgotten. He did not come up to New York that often. "I have booked one of the private dining rooms."

"Yes, sir, I know." He took their coats and hung them in the cloakroom behind the reception counter. "Please follow me."

"I have a friend joining us for lunch. A Mr. Ury. Would you please show him in when he arrives?" They followed Lewis down the hall.

"Here we are sir." Opening the door, he stood back whilst they entered the private dining room.

Two tables with seating for four at each, were set at opposite ends of the room. Separated by a fireplace set in one wall, four large leather wing chairs were grouped in front of the fire, which was giving out a cozy warmth. Window dressing really as the entire building was centrally heated, but it did give the room a gentlemen's club atmosphere. The street wall was lined with floor to ceiling windows which were draped with long softly patterned curtains in shades of grays and reds, to keep out prying eyes and keep in secrets.

"Would you like a drink sir?" Lewis enquired as he showed them to the leather chairs.

"Sounds a fine idea. Floyd?" Bill raised one eyebrow querying.

"It's a cold day; think I'll have a cognac."

"Good idea, make that two thanks Lewis."

"Very good sir." The steward turned on his heel and left the room discreetly closing the door behind him.

The two men settled themselves in front of the fire and relaxed. Within a few minutes, Lewis returned with the drinks, which he settled in front of them.

Their visitor Dvir Ury was with him.

"Good to see you both." The Israeli approached, a tall, good looking, well built man with a shock of black hair, scattered with gray and the hawk nose of his race. Holding himself with a

military bearing he would never blend into the crowd, and with an air of arrogant insouciance that victors carry, he held out his hand and shook both of theirs.

Bill gestured to the third chair and enquired. "Drink?"

"A whisky would be fine thanks, single malt, no ice," Dvir instructed Lewis.

"Very good sir," and Lewis once again left the room with his usual discretion.

Now, what brings you two out of retirement?" Dvir grinned at them. "Academic life too quiet for you?"

"Not for one minute. It's great."

They indulged in small talk until Lewis returned with the whisky which he placed in front of Dvir.

"Would you care to order now sir?" Lewis enquired of Bill, who looked at the others.

"How about leaving it for twenty minutes or so." Floyd suggested and the others nodded agreement.

Again Lewis withdrew. It was not lost on Bill who loved the formality of the club.

"L'Chayim" (To Life)." Dvir toasted.

" L'Shanah (for a good year) they responded as they clinked glasses and swallowing, savored the taste of the spirits.

"Now, down to business." The Israeli placed his drink in front of him and looked at them quizzically.

Floyd picked up the ball and ran with it, just like the linebacker he had been in college.

"I want to fill you in about a rumor I've heard. You're up to your armpits in smuggling conflict diamonds out of Africa and washing them through the Virgin Islands into Russia, where they provide the arms and you provide military training." You have to give the Americans one thing, they don't mess around with niceties

The Israeli picked up his glass again, swallowed and gestured at Floyd with the glass. "Good God, where on earth have you heard that crap. Why would we bother? We gather revenue in the form of taxes from the flourish legitimate diamond industry in our country and we legitimately sell our arms and assist with military training to special customers in the African nations, just like your own country. Why would we need to involve ourselves in some subversive covert operation?"

"Because you need even more money to continue defending your country."

"You provide us with aid, so your own country can maintain a foothold in the Middle East."

"Yes, but it's not enough is it? War is a costly business."

"You're telling the story." Dvir looked through Floyd to Bill who remained silent in the background, letting the two men deck it out together.

"Come on don't bullshit me." Floyd had no patience now with the cat and mouse games the intelligence agencies played. "I don't care what the hell you're up to in your messy little war. I'm out of it, but if you don't come clean, I can't give you the dirt on one of your allies and you'll be in the shit."

"You threatening me?" Dvir looked at him coldly.

"No you stupid bastard, we're trying to save your country's neck before the whole world hears of one of your mad financial schemes. Personally we don't care what the hell you do but this involves a close friend of ours." Bill stepped into the breach.

"Okay. Okay, but you two know better than to ask." Dvir gave in with bad grace. "In your American slang, we're dancing as fast as we can."

"You'll be thankful we did once you hear this," Floyd, let him know they were aware of the Cartel, the intrigue and Basil's role in it.

"He's going to blow you all sky high if you're not careful." Bill lent Floyd some well deserved backup.

"Hmm, I've heard rumors he and the Russian are at each other's throats, but nothing more than that. They have too much to lose." Dvir was ambivalent.

"More than you think," and they laid their cards on the table, filling him in on Basil's private vendetta.

"Shit!" The Israeli was furious. "The man's a banker, he's supposed to leave this sort of thing to the psychopaths in the military and Government. Why can't he just go out and get a hooker, dress up in his public schoolboy uniform and get her to beat the crap out of him?"

"Self-effacement is not this guy's bag. Perhaps you can put him in the front line or something." Floyd was only half joking. "Lose the bastard."

"Alright, leave it to me," the Israeli grumbled, "I'll arrange something." He was not pleased.

"Permanent?" Floyd asked.

"Is that what you want?"

"He's obviously escalating. If he thinks he's losing status, with his twisted mind, he'll fly into a frenzy and take her out. He's getting off on his sense of self-importance and believes he's protected in high places and is untouchable. I want my friend safe."

"No one's irreplaceable, there's always someone waiting in the wings. Not as though the senior partner's aren't up to their necks as well. They won't want to drown," the Israeli growled. "Let's move to the table and eat. You know I hate sitting with my back to the door."

And so Basil's fate was sealed.

As they were leaving the Club, Floyd turned to the Israeli. "The woman is off limits. Harm her and all bets are off. I'll personally take you all down."
Chapter 84 – New York November 2006

Basil had not learnt his lesson and was ignoring the lawyer's advice and indulging once again in his favorite pastime. Fantasizing about killing Colette, which was pre-eminent in his thoughts these days. The broken glass was just a warm up.

When psychopaths escalate, they lose touch with reality. They have tasted blood and like it. Beginning to feel powerful beyond measure, they believe they are untouchable. Buried deep inside their souls is a caged monster, itching to be released into the world so it can wreak destruction. Once it rises to the surface, the spectrum of color in their lives becomes tainted and they see only dark nefarious deeds as normal. We are not speaking only of murderers who stalk our streets, as psychopaths exist in every strata of society, masquerading as individuals of power. Their masks are firmly fixed in place as they go about their everyday business.

Some we vilify, like Adolf Hitler, Stalin, Atilla the Hun. Others like Alexander the Great we make into heroes, whose bloody deeds became justifiable as they were expanding their Empires. They share the same bloodlust, whether killing individuals, known and unknown to them; or invading other countries they covet for their own glory.

History will write about their great deeds, as tens of thousands lay strewn on the ground in death, to feed this quest for power.

In Basil's mind, he was now indestructible. "I'm beyond the reach of the NYPD. They can't prove a thing against me. There's no proof linking me to the soaps and lotions, only suspicions and that would never even get me charged.' God, it felt great.

Since the attack, sales of Colette's book had skyrocketed, which irked him no end. Not only were the injuries not as serious as he would have wished, now she was protected around the clock in a secret location. It rankled he had been instrumental in providing her with the kind of publicity that could not be bought. He had made her into a heroine. Damn it. Killing off one of these was practically impossible.

Basil's delirium had waved farewell to commonsense. "How could I possibly let her live and publish the book on blood diamonds? It could bring down my shining future I've worked so hard for." Perhaps worst of all, the entire scheme. It simply could not be countenanced.

Something slimy and rotten slithered through his mind, twisting all sense of reason beyond the pale. Basil had a real dilemma to solve.

How could he kill Colette without the finger pointing back at himself. The house was easy for him to get close to her with the high rate of crime in the Hamptons. Anyone could break in, hit her over the head with one of her beloved Erte statuettes. Yes, knock her brains out with Windsong, a fitting end for the bitch.

If reason was taking a back seat, commonsense was the trailer behind the main feature. Practically salivating as different scenarios played out vicious scenes of degrading acts, Basil teetered on the verge of madness.

'Hmmm, think, think. Plastic bag over the head, she suffocates and dies. Too bad,' he considered. 'Now, that's a possibility. Something that could easily be achieved in this violent city. Make it look like a mugging. Could be anywhere, anytime, anyone. Yes! This is the way to go. Off with her head. Just like the Red Queen in Alice in Wonderland.' Except this time, he was the arbiter of Justice.
Chapter 85 – Late November 2006

Emile had dreaded Colette returning home to the scene of Basil's invasion, knowing it could not help but remind her of his constant attacks on her. Physically she was healing well, but the effects on her psyche were taking their toll. She would sit for hours in her bedroom, looking like a wan ghost, by the roaring fire Emile kept going to warm her as her thin body would shake with cold. He would busy himself making cups of coffee which she hardly touched and forcing a little food down her.

Physically he could help to build her up. Emotionally, mentally and spiritually, he knew she had to find the way back on her own while he kept vigil. Reluctantly, setting off each day to his office at Water Mill, he left her in the care of Lorenzo's in-house minder. More invisible protectors were hidden amongst the trees and barn.

Sleep had never eluded her before. It had been her ally, her friend. Now it became her opponent. The more she tried to sleep, the more it eluded her. Fearing shadows, searching for the slightest nuance of danger, she roamed the house at night until Emile would come down, soothe her, make her hot chocolate, and lead her back to bed where he would hold her tight. An evil presence seemed to follow her up the stairs like a dark gray ghost.

She was functioning on automatic which profoundly disturbed him. It was as though the flow of existence was slowly fading, becoming a distant memory for her. Could she find her way back from the sanctuary to which her tormented soul had retreated from the world?

Worried as she sat brooding, fighting a gray depression that hung around like the cold mists of no-man's land, Emile was running scared. "I'm taking you out of the country." Whilst he was confident that Lorenzo and Floyd would do their utmost for Colette, there were no guarantees for her safety once she had stepped outside the family's estate.

Basil appeared to have powerful friends at Court and the police had been unable to charge him with anything. Emile found it unbelievable that the finger pointed as straight as an arrow to Basil, but he appeared to be untouchable. Gloomily he considered that if it was possible to assassinate a well protected President, it was possible to get at Colette in one unguarded exposed moment.

"Emile, That's a lovely thought, but I can't. I've got to promote the book. I have a responsibility to the publishers." Colette looked exhausted after having minor skin grafts. The surgeon had assured her they would be unnoticeable in time. The scars on her mind were something he could do nothing about and she knew that time would erode them. The threat of Basil lingered in back of her mind, popping up every so often just to remind her not to become complacent.

"To hell with that. With all the publicity, the book will fly off the shelves. You're a tragic heroine. Your life is more important." Emile appealed to her, feeling completely helpless, as he watched Colette twisting her fingers so desperately he felt they would fall off.

He had watched her since her return from Lorenzo's, looking around guardedly, as though expecting Basil to manifest from nowhere and attack her in and unguarded moment. It laid Emile's soul bare to see this happening to the woman he loved.

Slowly she found her way back from the nightmare, her indomitable spirit rising once more. Noticing when the thin watery winter sun peeped out. Rising from the chair to stand by the French doors, sipping a hot coffee. Venturing on to the deck. A red letter day was the one when she made her way downstairs and prepared her own coffee and a snack, lingering in the drawing room, snuggled up to the fire, drawing strength from its warmth.

"Please let me take you to the sun." Emile would beg her.

"It's best that I keep myself busy. Honestly. I'm stronger now." From somewhere deep inside, her spirit rose from where it had retreated and determination to face her destiny etched itself across her features.

Emile was in despair. It had been brutally close. The police were not going to curtail Basil. In the short term Colette was protected, but what would happen in the future when he struck again? Would he pierce their defenses and succeed?

His mind recoiled from the thought of the banker being permanently severed from this life by immediate expedient means, but what other choice was there?

Lorenzo and Floyd would not hesitate to mount the necessary if he said the word. It would be fast, lethal and untraceable.

But what about the attacker in hospital? Who the hell was that? Floyd had given him no satisfactory explanation, nor had the police come up with anything worthwhile.

Emile knew Floyd had his suspicions and he pressed their friend to come clean with him. Floyd doubted the truth would quell Emile's fears, if he knew about the far reaching tentacles of power behind that incident. Best he remained ignorant. Floyd had taken the necessary action.

Floyd blanched as he thought of Emile's reaction. "No." he decided. "Emile must be kept in the dark for now, until the situation was resolved." Knowing this was not far off, he resolutely bided his time.

So Emile fretted as Colette made her next stand, but he knew better than to try and curtail her plans. At the moment, it was proving to be her saving grace and he let matters be.

"Next week I complete the interviews in New York. Floyd has organized private protection for me and the publishers will cover the cost. They will travel with me to other cities for the book signings. Basil won't be able to reach me if I'm constantly on the move," she argued, determined to move on. Anything was better than being trapped in the house waiting for his next frenzied attack.

Emile was in a dilemma. Knowing how fragile she was after her terrible ordeal, he was afraid she would push herself too hard and shatter, maybe never to recover. On the other hand, he understood her need and did not want to crush her spirit. He was amazed at her resilience and the need to fight back. As she traveled, Lorenzo's men would shadow her, ever vigilant, alert, like the ex Rangers, the elite group from the marines, they were. Ever alert, they moved like shadows through shadows. Floyd's bodyguards would stand out; Lorenzo's men would remain unseen by any predators. God help anyone who got in their way.

With the launch of her new novel with its thriller theme, the attack on Colette was a heaven sent opportunity for the Publisher's PR department. The media were drumming up a storm and the public was clamoring for the new book. Signings were a chance to see her up front and personal.

This time the publishers had booked her into a suite at the Pierre. A bodyguard shadowed her every movement and Colette felt she was in prison. Neither she nor Emile felt like eating out and they ate in the hotel restaurant or relied on room service. Unfortunately the food tasted like chaff which was no reflection on the hotel kitchen. At this moment, the most magnificent meal from the best kitchens and chefs, would have been wasted on them. They had lost their appetites.

Tired of watching their backs, Colette was pleased she would be traveling soon. Basil could not follow her there.

"I'll travel with you." Emile was reluctant to let her out of his sight.

"Emile darling, you can't put your own business at risk. I'm well looked after. My publishers don't want to lose a cash cow."

"Goddamn it Colette, I love you and I will not let anyone reduce you to that."

"Emile, I love what I do." Colette implored him, begging him to understand. "I am safer moving around than I am staying put and I'm damned if I will let him take my life away from me." Wincing, she drew close to him, desperate to recapture a normal life that was so well known and yet appeared lost to her now. Seemingly beyond her reach, as she strove to overcome large blanks in her mind, while it scrabbled around desperately seeking surcease from the danger that threatened her.

"If I want to continue as a successful author, I have to do my part in the publicity of my books. Many talented people dream of this opportunity and never make it. Why would I run and hide at the first sign of trouble in my life. My publishers are right behind me, I have to go on."

"Jesus, Colette." Emile's eyes misted over as he moved towards her and drawing her close, wound himself around her protectively as though he could stop the attacks on her psyche that threatened her peace of mind. "You're one of the bravest people I have ever met. How can you reach deep down into yourself and raise up this kind of courage?"

Sheltered, protected, instead of possessed. This felt good, Colette relaxed and taking a deep breath drew on the feeling between them. "You give me the strength to go on."

"I don't care if you never write another book, if it means putting your life in jeopardy. I will take care of you."

"Aah, but you see darling, I care. This is my lifeblood, my expression in life, this makes me who I am and without it I will wither on the vine and die." Colette took his face in her hands and looked deeply into his eyes. "I will not let Basil take my life from me. That is what he wants and I will never give him that pleasure."

Emile drew back and looked at her admiringly. Drawing her down to sit on the deep sofa. He put his head in his hands and tears ran down his face. "I know and I will be here for you. But God help me, I love you so much and I don't want to lose you. I know this is selfish, but I want to see the next sixty years of sunrises and sunsets with you." He reached out to her. "Run away with me please?"

"There's no running away from this my darling." Colette squared her shoulders and set her face.

Confused, he looked at her.

"I'll win, even though he has some heavy hitters on his side. Don't ask me how I know, I just do. I'm stronger now."

He wound his arms around her again and held her so close she knew they were as one. "If this is what you feel you have to do, I am with you 100%. What do you want from me?"

"Continue with what you have to do, I'll finish the publicity tour. Then our time is our own."

"Christmas is coming. We both deserve a long break. Let's fly to Paris in time for Christmas, then go down to the South of France and the Ligurian coast for a few weeks and recharge our batteries. He won't find us there."

Colette drew back and clapped her hands in glee. "Oh Emile. Can we go to Portofino? I adore it."

Thankful to see the joy on her face he promised. "We can go anywhere you, want to."

"Can we go on to Lake Maggiore as well?" she pleaded.

"I told you wherever your heart desires." He had secret plans to take her further than that. Plans he would tell her about once they were safely in Europe.

"I can't wait, and that gives me something to look forward to."

"Thank God." He breathed and smelled her fresh clean hair and the soft perfume she wore. This was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with and if necessary he would kill for her.

Chapter 86 – Launch of Colette's Novel early December 2006

Basil would have to move fast to keep up with her itinerary and she had her minder who was a nice enough guy. Hell, he even read her novel and said he liked it. Sales were going through the roof. Funnily enough, statistics showed that seventy percent of readers of women authors were male.

Colette was crisscrossing the country from snow and cold in the Eastern states to the milder climates of the West Coast. Los Angeles was so polluted, she was pleased to be out of it and did not enjoy the Hollywood hype her public relations company involved her in. Signings in the Borders and Barnes and Nobles, interviews and public speaking engagements kept her busy and her mind off the danger.

However, it niggled at her and she felt as though she was living in a maelstrom with Emile her anchor. Thank God he had come into her life and was most certainly prepared to be her protector. Would she let him? Could she let go of old fears in order to survive the ever present threat of Basil? Open up her heart to Emile and become vulnerable?

The intense promotion that accompanied the launch of a new novel was part of the deal and Colette always enjoyed it. As the spotlight stayed on her throughout the tour, the stories of the threats to her own safety followed her, succinctly placed by the PR machine.

It was the least she could do for her many readers and she enjoyed meeting and talking with them.

Larry King's interview was perceptive and probing, despite his fatherly approach, and centred around the threat to her life.

Jay Leno made her laugh, mainly at herself.

Oprah was such a professional. It was a joy to work with her. And a spot on her TV Show was one of the highlights of the tour. Previously Colette's books had been a comedic poke at life in the fast lane and both the critics and the interviewers were surprised at her change of direction.

"What made you write this novel, which is a huge departure from your normal genre?" Abuse of power, was dear to Oprah's heart.

"Coming out of the closet as you did Oprah." Colette leaned forward. "I have long admired your courage in doing so and you took so much flak for it. You're not afraid to stand up and be counted and I wanted to be in your camp."

Oprah smiled warmly at the slim redhead sitting opposite her. "Any exposure of abuse is well worthwhile, even when it's wrapped up in fiction."

"I also want to help abused women to break free from their conditioning."

"Are these attacks true Colette?" Oprah probed.

"Yes, they are Oprah."

"Who, in your opinion, is doing this to you?"

"The police are investigating leads." Colette looked straight into the camera, seeking Basil's twisted mind amongst the tens of thousands watching the show. "At the moment, they have made no arrests, but they are pursuing some avenues which I cannot speak about or it could compromise the investigation."

Oprah sighed and looked compassionately at Colette.

Basil, avidly watching the interview, pronounced to Colette. "Your days are numbered you bitch. This I promise you." The words issuing forth, like snow pushed ahead of a locomotive's snow plough. Greater power hath no man than that of a member of a Cartel with interests to protect.

Chapter 87 – Tel Aviv December 2006

"We have interests to protect." The Israeli Government High Poohbah cast Ira a withering look. Floyd had been in touch with the Israelis through his Spooksville contacts. They had reported to the Government officials who had hauled Ira and Ami over the coals. "The entire fucking operation's in jeopardy because of one loose cannon. Deal with him." The head of Metsada was watching them darkly.

Not much frightened the Israeli businessman, he was an astute man but also knew the Government had it within their power to bury him, literally if needs be.

"I have discussed the matter and it is in hand." He glanced sideways at Ami, to whom he was joined at the hip and went nowhere without him these days. Gone were the days when the agent disappeared for months at a time. "He can easily be replaced in the bank, the senior partners will not condone this."

"Then he must be removed discreetly."

"It will have to be permanent. His ego will not accommodate being sidelined."

"I have no issue with that. See to it." One of the prerequisites for high Government office in any country is a cold, cold heart and no conscience. If the dynamics of the group were being affected by this ongoing animosity, before something gave, measures would be taken to end it.

"I'll take care of the package. However, it will require your department negotiating with the British Foreign Office, in particular his cousin Sir Desmond Mortimer and obtaining their sanction." He turned back to his hipster, who grunted his compliance, keeping his own counsel for now.

"They won't stand in the way. Having as much to lose as we do. I'll contact Desmond Mortimer and he will speak with Ambrose."

Ira stood and shook hands with the Government official, then left the room relieved to be out from under the agency's scrutiny. The atmosphere had been pretty tense. "Right, let's work out a plan. Sooner the better, we just have to wait for the right time to ensure there is no impact on the money flow."

"How about losing him at sea. Jet goes down with all aboard."

"Well, it can't be a commercial flight. We don't want Lockerbie all over again. The world won't tolerate that. We'll insist he comes to Tel Aviv, using the Bank's Lear Jet. I'll ask him to bring a pouch of diamonds."

"Lose all that money." Ami, the lethal weapon was shocked.

"Don't be stupid, they'll be high quality Zircons. Who the hell will know the difference? He won't and he'll be too scared to open them. I'll make sure of that. I'll put the fear of Yahweh into him. I am a bit concerned about Ambrose if we down their plane?"

"We can always recompense them." Ami dismissed this as nothing. "Just make sure he never reaches his destination." Putting the Cartel's enterprise into jeopardy would not be tolerated.

"What about the pilot?" Ira enquired.

"He's expendable." Ami shrugged nonchalantly. "Collateral damage."

Life's cheap in the world of political intrigue.

An official from the Israeli Embassy in London paid Desmond a visit, from which he emerged mildly flustered.

The chance of a lifetime thrown down the drain. What was the matter with his idiot cousin? I recall those couple of incidents when we were children. Animals in jeopardy, never thought he would progress to humans. Well, we can't have this. And he simply shrugged it off and spoke quietly to the senior partners at Ambrose.

"We are happy to accept whomever you decide will take his place. Please choose very wisely this time. No nepotism," the Chairman urged Desmond.

"Arrangements will be made to recompense you for whatever losses you may incur." Desmond deemed it prudent not to mention the loss of the $10 million Learjet at this point, although he had been taken into the Israeli's confidence.

So Desmond was able to assure the Foreign Office and the Israelis the matter had been addressed, who assured Ira, who sent out his lethal weapon to seek and destroy. Time to dust off the family mausoleum.

"I need you here for an emergency meeting next week. Use the Bank's Learjet, not a regular commercial flight because I want you to bring a pouch of gemstones for me. I will have them delivered to your office prior to the flight. Make sure you guard them well." Basil could hear the ice dripping from Ira's speech and felt the cold spear of fear in his heart.

'I wonder what's up,' he thought to himself. 'I hope that idiot Korshanenko is not playing power games. I wouldn't want to cross the Israelis." A cold shiver ran from the top of his perfectly groomed head to his well shod toes.

"Now to put the fear of God into Korshanenko." Ira turned to his lethal weapon. "I want him down here to see this, so he learns to curb his temper and his tongue."

The same message was conveyed to Arkadiy, who did not fear much in this life, but he did fear his compatriots in the Russian Mafia. Even more than the Israelis. His partners would not endure any threat to the flow of money that lined their fleecy pockets in their fur coats and kept them warm in a luxurious lifestyle, during the bitter winter months in Moscow, from which they escaped as quickly as possible.

Whilst he blustered, Ira bluntly told him. "Get here or you do not see tomorrow's sunset."

That didn't appeal to him. He lived by the sword and did not like being ordered around. 'The blyad (whore) needs me. He wouldn't dare.'

The Chechens they used as enforcers were maniacs. Adored killing, lived for it. He didn't want to be on the receiving end.

Chapter 88 – In Flight December 2006

Now it was over, the book was outselling the publisher's expectations. No more duties to perform. Emile had cleared his schedule and their life was their own at last. Snow lay on the ground. It was time to head for warmer climes. But first, they would celebrate Christmas together in the most romantic city in the world.

"Colette is this the last of your bags? Emile called from the foyer? To ensure she was safe, Emile had stayed with her in Amagansett, bolstered by the 24x7 protection Uncle Lorenzo had set up. They would tail them to the airport, see them safely on board, fly to Paris with them and follow them discreetly throughout their trip. Never far away. Close enough to stop any threat to them.

They had been their guardian angels since Colette insisted on returning to her own home. Damned if she would be chased out of it by Basil.

"Yes." She walked into the kitchen where Emile was having a last cup of coffee. Raising his cup to her in a salute, he drank the last of the brew, rinsed and loaded it into the dishwasher.

"Want one?"

"No thanks."

"Right." Turning, he opened the kitchen cupboard, took out the dishwasher powder, shook it into the receptacle, turned on the washer and put the powder back into the cupboard and closed it.

"Ready?" He opened his arms wide and she ran into them.

"I'm so excited."

"So am I, let's go." Gathering up their bags, he carried them outside to a waiting limousine Lorenzo insisted on them using. The driver loaded the bags into the trunk, then opened the car doors.

After Emile had checked all was in order, he set the alarm, held his arm out to Colette who tucked hers inside. After locking the door, they walked to the comfortable vehicle and stepped into a new life.

"We're off." Emile was delighted to see the enthusiasm and joy on her face. He prayed this trip would distract her from the ever present threat of Basil's mania. Sales of her books were rocketing, helped along by the publicity of the attempt on her, but she was weary, bone weary down in her soul. She could not believe that Basil would have done such a thing to her. Without Emile, she doubted she would have survived the ordeal.

Winter had arrived. Snow fell softly around them and laid a carpet that the car glided softly through. Trees beseeched the spring to come, branches reaching out whilst they lay dormant until the soft warmth of the next season embraced them, coaxing them back to life. The cheeky squirrels ran to their cache of nuts and fed excitedly, their winter coats protecting them from the cold. Still they shivered and shook the snow from their bodies. "They are so sweet." Lazily she looked outside as they drove slowly through the village.

"Sweet, they are destructive little pests."

"But sweet," she insisted.

"If you say so." Smiling at her, he reached out for her hand encased in warm leather gloves.

On through New York to JFK Airport. Alighting from the car, they checked in and made their way to the VIP lounge until it was time to board the Airbus A380. "Pity about the Concorde," Colette commented. "It was so fast; you were there in no time at all. Despite the supersonic speed, I am sure you arrived less jetlagged. Well I seemed to." She looked around the business class cabin and settled into the large comfortable Air France seats complete with a massage function, while Emile loaded their hand luggage into the overhead compartments.

"Never had the pleasure. Too rich for my blood." Emile sat himself alongside her, stretched his long legs, and took her hand and reaching over kissed her. "This will do me fine," he assured her.

"Champagne?" The hostess appeared before them offering flutes of Taittinger.

"Absolutely," they both accepted and taking them off the tray, toasted each other. A box of chocolates was placed in front of them and a bunch of roses for Colette.

"Air France has the best First and Business class service of any airline." Colette had told him. So far the l'Espace Première experience was living up to its reputation as far as Emile was concerned.

"What is your favorite memory of Europe?" Emile wanted to draw her out and take her mind off any threat from Basil. Despite her bravado, she was still jumping at shadows.

"Oh Emile, I have so many, it's hard to know where to start." Her mind traveled back in time to the many wonderful experiences.

"The culture of the old world, the history, the art. I recall one trip when I traveled down to Meersburg on Lake Constanz in Southern Germany. Checked into this wonderful little hotel in the centre of the town and wandered down to the lakeside for dinner which was superb. I love how you simply go back in time in these wonderful ancient towns. I slept peacefully and very rarely shut curtains, so the summer light was sneaking into the room next morning.

"Something got me out of bed and over to the window where I leaned out. Imagine my surprise, when I saw a carpet of flowers reaching past the hotel around the corner to my left and up the road on my right. On questioning the waitress at breakfast, she told me it was the Feast of Corpus Christi. Promptly at ten o'clock, the procession started from the church at the top of the town on the right hand side of the hotel. It wended its way down the hill, the priest following the altar boys carrying the large votive candles in their candlesticks. Behind the priest came the faithful. Catholic roots still run very deep in southern Germany.

Stopping half way down the hill, to pronounce a blessing at a small altar that had been set up, they recommenced and continued past the hotel, on this magnificent carpet of flowers that the ladies of the church had laid out during the night. I couldn't believe my eyes. I had hurriedly dressed and gone downstairs, so as they passed me outside, they went through an arch between two buildings and I followed. Into a square where they blessed another small altar that had been set up. It was like stepping back in time." Colette was lost in the memory and her face was rapt.

"I know what you mean. I have seen these processions in small villages in France and Italy." Emile's roots were steeped in the religious mystique of Europe.

"It's so fascinating isn't it?" She searched his face and saw the same enthusiasm for the rituals of religious festivals as she had. "On that same trip, I traveled through Bavaria from Neuschwanstein, where mad Ludwig's Sleeping Beauty castle is and headed for the Romantischestrasse (Romantic Road). Luckily, I happened to have a guide book which told me to look for a pilgrimage church in the middle of nowhere. I followed the directions and lo and behold, there it was. I parked the car, walked past a pig sty and a milking shed to this large church, the Wieskirche. It means the church in the field.

Inside this church was decorated by artisans with work that was as magnificent as anything you see in any of the main centers. I wandered to a side altar and there were literally hundreds of letters pinned to boards on the wall, thanking Jesus for the miracle in their life. From what I could see it was mainly for being blessed with a child after years and years of being childless or the finding of a perfect mate."

"It contained this lovely legend. Starting from such humble beginnings to a story of triumph. Apparently a friar in the seventeenth century had carved a statue of Christ for a procession in Steingaden. The wooden figure, represented Jesus as the Scourged Savior and had been put together with pieces from other wooden figures and its joints were covered with linen and paint. Covered with blood and wounds, this pathetic figure evoked such pity from the pious folk, that it was rejected by the priests and banished to an attic in the monastery's inn.

The landlord's niece took it to her farmhouse where she and her husband revered it. One evening she noticed tears on its face. She told the Abbot of Steingaden and as miracles were easier to come by in those days, he did not discourage the veneration of the little statue. Its pilgrimage movement spread through Europe within a few years, so they had to build a chapel which grew into the large church it is today. Set in the middle of nowhere." Smiling, she put a hand on his arm. "I love stories like that."

"No wonder you're successful, you're a born storyteller." Emile leaned over and kissed her lightly.

"I'm simply repeating what I read in the little book I picked up at the church. It really touched my heart."

Emile was pleased he could take her mind off the ever present threat of Basil, that they seemed powerless to stop.

Chapter 89 – Paris France Christmas 2006

Paris, that most romantic of cities. Booking into the Plaza Athenee in the Avenue de Montaigne, they settled in to enjoy that special time of the year.

Plaza Athenee is not just a hotel; it's a way of life. Quiet, beautiful and distinguished, with its well known red awnings and geraniums on the balconies, it was the favorite hotel of choice in Paris for Jacqueline Kennedy/Onassis and Princess Grace of Monaco.

The hotel's apartments are decorated in various styles, with the top two floors are given over to Art Deco, in an attempt to combine the charm of former residences with contemporary luxury.

"Look." Colette drew Emile's attention to the sketches lining the corridor walls. "These are done by well known fashion designers."

"So they are." Emile looked at her and raised his eyebrows." And I suppose this is as close as you will get to them this week?" he said facetiously.

"I just want to peek into Valentino and Kenzo. That's all, I promise." Smiling, she dropped her head and gave him a Lady Di look from her large green eyes, as she sought to convince him. "Honest."

"Sure." Emile didn't believe a word of it. A woman restraining herself in the fashion capital of the world? He seriously doubted that.

The windows of their suite opened to the chestnut trees lining the Avenue. Other suites overlooked the Eiffel Tower, Montmartre rooftops, and the hotel's peaceful Garden Courtyard. The hotel is an 11th century building, with a beautiful Parisian frontage and Colette loved the old world elegance of the large and luminous rooms decorated in the Louis XV1 style, which has always attracted the most sophisticated worldwide clientele.

"Colette, I'm not very wealthy and feel a bit intimidated by all this." They had ventured out of the hotel and had made their way to the Place Vendome. "I can't take you to Bulgari and buy you jewels, but I want you to know that if I could, I would." Passing the famous store he drew her closer for warmth. Snow was falling, caressing the lovers with its soft gentle kiss.

"Do you think I care about that?" Colette looked at him with tear diamonds in her eyes. You're the jewel in my life. Far brighter than any of these." She gestured towards the windows displaying glorious pieces of jewelry and gemstones. "You and I don't need symbols of our love for each other. It shines brighter than any glittering gem and the most important thing in the world for me, is that you make me feel safe and secure." Colette nestled her head into Emile's shoulder. "You're all I need."

"What do you want for a Christmas gift?" he entreated. "It's Christmas Eve."

"To stroll around Paris with you." Carefully dancing out of reach and spreading her arms, she twirled around whilst amused Parisians smiled as they passed the couple. This was not unusual behavior in their beautiful city. "This is the most romantic city in the world and I am here with my lover."

Dressed in a long white cashmere overcoat by Claude Montana which had a large shawl collar and followed the lines of her slender figure to her ankles, underneath she wore a simple Italian black cashmere turtle neck sweater with a long cream virgin wool skirt. Knee length black calf leather Italian boots encased her feet. She stood out in a crowd and Emile considered himself the luckiest man in the world.

Laughing gaily, they held each other tightly as they continued towards the Madeleine Plaza.

Part of the charm of Paris is the elegant 12th century architecture, which progress had not been allowed to demolish to make room for ugly modern skyscrapers. To her it was the most romantic city in the world and she loved returning again and again.

She was drawn to the history and culture of Europe, where time stood still for her and appeared to retreat into the past, taking her with it. Whenever possible, she never lost an opportunity to steep herself in the ancient secrets it hugged to its bosom.

Now that winter was upon the city, the chestnut trees that shaded the boulevards in summer were stark against the landscape. Sleeping until the spring touched them with its breath of arousal and renewed themselves again. Their delicate branches and leaves would rustle softly in the delicate summer breezes like excited young debutantes readying themselves for their coming out ball.

The aura of the Christ Child's birth lay over Paris, as it was celebrated with breathtaking illuminations and the large department store windows were decorated with Nativity and other scenes. "Are you warm enough?" Emile asked Colette, concerned she would be feeling the cold wintry air.

"Absolutely," she replied. "Just walking around looking at Paris dressed up for Christmas warms my heart. Look at this?" They were passing through the Madeleine area and it was a mass of twinkling lights.

"Do you want to catch a cab down to Printemps and the Galeries Lafayette?"

"Oh no," Collette protested. "It's so magical. Let's walk and look in all the windows."

Emile hugged her tighter.

"Summer is a magical time here." Stopping for a moment, she turned to Emile and held his face between her hands. "We simply have to return."

"We'll come again in summer," he promised bending to kiss her deeply which Parisians seated inside the warm cafes noticed and approved.

"Whenever you want. Paris is the city for lovers." The chill of winter brought color to her face and he was delighted to see she appeared to have left the problem of Basil behind her for now at least.

After a couple of hours wandering and enjoying the festive air, they returned to the hotel and wandered into the art deco bistro Le Relais Plaza, dining on simple classic dishes, accompanied by a delicious Poully Fuisse that wine the sommelier had suggested to complement their meals, Emile was delighted her gay mood continued.

"Let there be an end to this nightmare." Unashamedly he begged the good graces of any God that was tuned in today. "She doesn't deserve it. I can only protect her when I am around. I'm afraid when I am not with her," he admitted unashamedly. "Don't let this lunatic hurt her, I beg you."

In his mind's eye he pictured the spires of Notre Dame, one of the architectural wonders of the world which they would visit again in the next few days. "Please, whoever and wherever you are, save this wonderful woman from harm." As if on cue, the bells rang out for midnight mass as they strolled back up to their room, passing the large, beautifully decorated Christmas tree in the foyer.

Next morning, a watery ray of sunshine stole into the room and touched them gently. "Awaken, awaken," it insisted. Colette opened her eyes and saw Emile sleeping beside her gently breathing. "Thank God he's real; he's not a dream that disappears when I open my eyes." Hearing a gentle cheep, she looked out at the balcony to see a small red robin, welcoming in the Holy Day.

Emile stirred and opened his eyes. "Merry Christmas darling." Groaning he reached out for her. "I think I drank too much wine last night."

"Merry Christmas," Colette whispered back. Holding each other they breathed in each other's scent and then Colette freed herself and slipping on a warm robe, walked over to the French doors. "Ooooh! It's snowing for Christmas." Delighted, she turned back to him. "Let's ring down for coffee and breakfast." She strolled into the bathroom to freshen up.

"Great idea." Lazily stretching and yawning, Emile threw back the continental quilt and slipping on the robe supplied by the hotel, picked up the phone and dialed room service.

"Croissants, preserves, le pain, madame?"

"Mmmm, great."

"Anything else?"

"No thanks, That's heaps."

"Champagne?"

"Of course." She walked back into the room, nodding her head. "It's Christmas and we have so much to celebrate and be thankful for. Let's go to L'Eglise Saint-German des Pres, the oldest church in Paris, for Christmas mass. They hold the most wonderful concerts there."

As Emile would have followed her to the ends of the earth, he was happy to agree.

Already her stomach was rumbling at the thought of the wonderful breads that would arrive. A good sign, it meant her appetite was returning.

Emile walked into the bathroom to pee, washed his hands and face, brushed his teeth, while Colette wandered to the French doors overlooking the balcony. Returning to join her at the window, they stood quietly watching the snow softly falling on Christmas Day.

As a few people hurried up the street, Colette shivered. "I wonder why they are venturing out into the cold so early, today of all days?"

"Goodness knows. The world goes about its business, even on Christmas Day. I guess many of them are off to morning mass." Moving behind her, he pulled her to him and they rocked gently together, feeling warm and cozy inside.

"My God Emile." Colette snuggled deeper. "We are behaving like normal people." She raised her face to look up at him. "After all the horrible months."

"It's wonderful isn't it?" Bending his head until his mouth found hers, he kissed her gently.

"How can I ever thank you for staying with me during that nightmare? You could have been in danger as well."

"Ssssh." Kissing her again he stroked her face and gazed deeply into her eyes. "I loved you from the first moment I saw you. Do you think I would desert you when your life was in danger?" Shaking his head slowly he kissed her once again. "I would rather have died instead of you."

"Oh Emile." Colette's eyes filled with tears as she took his hands and held them tightly. "You didn't sign up for this nightmare?"

"Oh yes I did, from the first moment." Emile drew her head to his shoulder and held her tightly.

A polite knock on the door heralded the arrival of the waiter with breakfast. Entering, he placed the covered dishes on the table set in front of the French windows that led on to the balcony. Emile tipped the waiter handsomely as they both wished him a Merry Christmas and he discreetly withdrew. Drawing Colette to her feet, he led her over to the repast and pulled out her chair. Once she was seated, he moved to his own across from her and smiled.

"That's one poor soul who got up early in the cold on Christmas Day to serve lucky people like ourselves." Emile teased her.

"Sometimes we forget how lucky we are," she responded thoughtfully whilst pouring them coffee, adding cream to hers.

"I have just the thing to warm us." Emile rose from the table and fetching a bottle of Cointreau, added a small portion to the coffees.

"Oooh, That's so yummy." The warming liquid slipped down her throat and she felt the warmth spread through her limbs making her languid.

"That's not all." Emile promised, pushing back his chair, walked to the bedside cabinet and reaching into the drawer, pulled out a small jeweler's box. Returning to the table, he placed it on the table between them, opened the lid and picking up her hand, gently asked "Will you marry me?"

Nestled in the box was the most beautiful emerald ring she had ever seen.

Colette stared at the ring in amazement. Drawing in a breath, she released it and softly cooed. "It's absolutely beautiful."

"Green to match your eyes."

"But Emile, you cannot afford......."

"Hush. It's been in my family for many generations. Part of our legacy."

"My God, who are you Emile? This is worth a fortune."

"We reward the women we love." Leaning forward he asked again. "Will you marry me? I want to spend the rest of my life with you; amble down the pathway of old age together with the experiences of life etched into our faces. You will be so beautiful when you are older."

Tears of joy sprang into her eyes and threatened to overflow. Without hesitation, she agreed. "Of course I'll marry you."

Reaching across the table, he slipped the ring on the third finger of her right hand.

"I can promise you, this was not mined by children. It comes from the Indian Mughal court in the seventeenth century."

Holding it up in front of her, she admired it. "Your first wife?" She looked at him enquiringly.

"Janine was very generous. She gave it back to me, knowing it had been in the family for generations."

Colette looked at him archly and raised an eyebrow queryingly.

Sighing, he capitulated. "We have a long illustrious history, on both sides. On my mother's, an ancestor unfortunately lost his head in the revolution, but this remained to grace the hand of the wives of the men in our family."

"But doesn't it belong to your mother?" Colette kept moving her finger back and forth, unable to take her eyes of the glittering gem.

"I've never seen anything so beautiful." Colette breathed softly as if she was afraid one breath would cause the ring to disappear.

"I am looking at its equal across the table."

Tears formed in her eyes and glistened on her long lashes.

Now it was her turn. Standing up, she walked to the bedside cabinet on her side of the bed and withdrawing a medium sized box, handed it to him.

As he had been so good to her, he deserved something very special. Emile looked at the beautifully wrapped gift. "Looks too good to spoil," he teased.

"Unwrap it, unwrap it." Colette encouraged him, wanting to see his reaction.

Undoing the bow, he removed the paper, revealing a box with the name Philippe Patek printed on it. Opening it, he gasped. Inside nestled a man's rectangle flared hour glass dress watch.

"Colette, this is worth a fortune. I've looked in windows and admired them but knew I could never afford one." Being well aware of their value, he was staggered at her generosity.

"But do you like it?"

"I love it, but..."

Colette quickly put her hand gently across his mouth. "No buts. I can afford this and if it hadn't been for you, I probably wouldn't even be here. Please like it."

"I love it." His eyes gleamed as he took it from the box and unclasping his Omega, slipped on the Phillippe Patek. "It's fantastic," he exclaimed, putting out his arm to admire it.

"Enjoy it my darling, Merry Christmas."

Well, they couldn't help but tumble back into the luxurious bed and make love after that. After all it was Christmas Day. Wrapping up warmly once more, they ventured out to listen to the bells pealing out the message from the churches in the city and find their way to St. Germain to bask in the glory of Christmas Mass in a church originally built in 558 AD.

"Happy?" Emile looked down at her.

"Deliriously."

Emile was so attuned to Colette now; it was not difficult for him to read her vibrations. Underlying her happiness and always lurking in the background, was the fear of what Basil had planned for her next.

Chapter 90 – Christmas Time in Paris

Anticipating that evening's sumptuous Christmas dinner in the hotel, they decided to skip lunch and feasted on each other instead, warm and cozy in their room. Despite the bitter cold, they decided they needed another walk and bundled up in overcoats, woolen scarves and leather gloves. So their ears would not freeze, they added Russian fake fur hats and braved the elements to briskly walk the avenues surrounding the hotel.

"That's enough exercise." Colette declared after one hour and with cheeks flushed from the cold, turned back to the warmth of the hotel.

"Let's warm our insides." Emile suggested and they dived into the bar for the wonderful, famous hot chocolate. Going back upstairs, they basked in each other's company, until it was time to go downstairs to the Hotel's signature restaurant au Plaza Athénée owned by the world renowned chef Alain Ducasse.

"You haven't told me about your parents." Colette put down her glass of Taittinger champagne they were sipping, her favorite, and cupping her chin in her hand, looked at Emile questioningly.

"What do you want to know about them?"

Colette shrugged delicately. "I'm a woman; I want to know everything and anything. That way I get to know about you when you were a child and an adolescent."

"God, I don't know that we want to go there."

"Yes, I do. I'm a story teller and I love a good story."

"Okay. They live in Italy now and they will love you. You remind me of mama."

"Why?"

"Elegant and stylish, refined with a great sense of humor. Her eyes crinkle like yours do when you smile. She loves reading, the arts, history, traveling, you two will make a great pair."

"Do you think they will really like me?" Colette reached up and nervously patted her hair.

"My father will fall instantly in love with you as you will remind him of mama. And mama will love you because you will take her back to when she was young."

"Where do they live?"

"I planned a surprise. They live in _Emilia_ - _Romagna_ and that is why I suggested we visit Lago Maggiore as it's on the way."

"Oh my God, that is what the extra week is for. The one that you wanted built in to just wander and stop where the urge took us." Colette sat up, clasping her hands together as her face lit up like the crystal chandeliers that decorated the dining room. Leaning across the table, she reached for his hand and held it tight. "Oh Emile, you are so thoughtful, what a wonderful surprise."

"They own a vineyard that does very well."

"How scrumptious. What wines do they make?"

Emile brought his other hand to cover hers. "I hope some of your favorites. Emilia Romagno is one of the best winemaking areas in northern Italy. Lambrusco, Pinot Grigio, Sangiovese."

"I can hardly wait." Colette was so excited at the prospect of meeting Emile's parents, any threats of Basil were banished into the ether and beyond.

"Emilio Romagno is also the home of the wonderful Parmigiano-Reggiano."

"I adore it. What's your family background?" Colette slipped in quickly whilst Emile's defenses were down.

"Well mama's family goes back to aristocracy in Chinon, a lovely medieval town in the Loire Valley. As I told you the Count was extremely unfortunate to lose his head as he was in the Paris townhouse at the time. Luckily some progeny were in Tour and wishing to retain their heads on their shoulders wisely took off for Italy, leaving the chateau and its furnishings behind. The townspeople ransacked the Chateau that was left unattended. The family left with as much as they could carry and were lucky to escape with their lives. "

"And the ring?" she looked down at the beautiful green gemstone on her left hand.

"It was on the finger of the eldest daughter and went with her and her family to Italy and she vowed never to let it leave the family no matter how hungry they were."

Colette's mind flew back to the past life with Emile. It all made sense now. Here he was surrounded by estates.

"Emile, you are to the manor born. Now what about father?"

"Mmm yes," he teased her. "His ancestors are from Venice and have always been involved in finance, hence Uncle Lorenzo. The Venetians have been excellent financiers for centuries as the trade routes used to go through there. As you know they have been bankers to the Vatican for centuries." Pausing to look at the expression on Colette's face, he laughed. "No, they were not involved in the Vatican banking scandal. By this time they had diversified and wanted a quieter life."

"And Uncle Lorenzo?" Dipping her head and placing it on the side, she looked at him archly and raised an eyebrow.

Again he laughed. "It is not common knowledge but Italy is represented amongst the gray ghosts as people like to call the top financiers in the world. He is part of the top one percentile who keeps the world's finances in check."

"Hmmm." She thought about what he had said and commented. "Doesn't that mean, they keep it for themselves and deprive others?"

"Not really if you understand the process my darling." Anxious to reassure her, he stood up, grasped her hand to raise her from the table and lead her to the sofa. Once settled, he sat beside her with her hand captured in his. "There would be utter chaos if the wealth of the world were evenly distributed. I know you find this hard to accept." Racing to reassure her once more, he knew he needed to clear the protest from her face and heart before it was uttered.

"Please trust me. I am not speaking about the obscenely wealthy who want to make a show of their riches and lifestyle. There are people who do much good with their wealth and it is not trumpeted around the world. They need to keep a low profile and they need to manage the world's finances to keep the chaos under control."

Colette looked at him doubtfully. "I can't believe that with all the wealth in the world, there should be starving people, not only in the third world, but in our own countries. Surely these wrongs could be righted."

"If only it were that simple." Emile sighed. "In a perfect world everyone would be happy and satisfied. It is the latter that creates the chaos. The dissatisfaction that leaves others disaffected. It's hard for me to explain and I do not know it all as I chose not to follow the family into the world of high finance. I want a simpler life where I am not responsible for the world at large."

"But you are such a compassionate man and involved...."

Emile interrupted her. "The organization I work with to help the disaffected people of the world, is funded by these so called gray ghosts. They provide expertise and are in a position to put the brakes on the obscenely greedy to the best of their ability. Unfortunately there are boundaries or there would be bloodbaths in every country of the world."

"But Governments are involved, seeking funding for their covert operations." She protested.

"I know and these people are democratically elected. We cannot have dictatorships and state control to the extent we have witnessed in eras past. It is far from perfect, but it is better than it has ever been in history."

Colette made a moue with her mouth. "It just seems to me history is repeating itself."

"I know, but trust me there is more caring in the world today and a great many people are doing extremely wonderful things at great risk to their own lives. They sacrifice them to help others and derive enormous satisfaction from them. Look at Doctors without Borders and many other agencies. This has never happened before in history."

Whilst Colette still looked doubtful, he knew that was as far as he could go to convince her at the moment. "I know, the missionaries were simply the advance guard for the merchants who were hard on their heels."

"Let's drop the subject for now and time will tell. I promise you." Emile was anxious the precious time together would not be jeopardized.

Reaching forward, she beckoned him forward and put a hand to his cheek. "I trust you Emile and I'm not going to let anything spoil our love and relationship."

"Let's go back upstairs now," Emile suggested. Rising, he offered his hand to her as she rose. Happily tucking her arm in his, they strolled hand in hand through the hotel. As they wandered past the courtyard on the way back to their room, Colette remarked. "La Cour Jardin restaurant is wonderful in the summer. It's in the Garden courtyard."

"We'll have to come back in summer." Emile smiled down, as he sought to distract her from any unpleasant thoughts of Basil. "And we will."

"How did your French family survive?" Colette was so enthralled with Emile's history, she was not about to let the subject die.

Emile laughed as he drew her into the elevator. "The first generation in Italy had some gold that they had managed to transfer to Italy, but of course the value dropped dramatically with the troubles in France. French currency was not worth what it had been. They also had jewels which they sold. Unused to hard labor and having left all their holdings in France, they fell back on the one skill they possessed. Winemaking. As the Chateau was located in the wonderful Loire Valley which is a perfect climate for many varieties of wines, they supplied the court."

"What kind?" Colette was fascinated.

"Chinon produces mostly red wine based on the Cabernet Franc grape variety, known in the region as Breton. It's similar to Bourqueil, but a little lighter. Chinon is a fresh and ready supply of red wine with a distinguished violet aroma." Emile spouted as they exited the elevator. "There I've just given you a tour of the wine region of Chinon madame."

Colette's laughter merrily pealed out.

"There is also an interesting dry and elegant rosé wine but quite difficult to find." He continued. "And did you know that Chinon is the birthplace of Rabelais, the famous French writer. He loved Chinon wine and once owned Clos de l'Echo, a famous local winery."

"Oh Emile." Colette wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. "I suppose consumption dropped dramatically with the revolution." She pulled him into the room, led him over to the couch, sat him down and nestled into him on his lap.

"I don't think the gold coins were rolling in like they used to." Emile grinned at her. "So, they had to roll up their sleeves, purchase a property, plant the vines and start from scratch. Thank God, the eldest daughter's husband had managed a vineyard, so he had the skills. The others had to learn. Fast."

"I thought your parents must live in Italy because of your father."

"Not really, although there are a few Florentine ancestors there as well."

"So they married into Italian families?"

"Well it was all hard work and there were other émigré French, so they intermarried for a few generations. One even married an Austrian whilst the Hapsburgs were still on the throne, which brought a bit more money back into the family. Some of them ended up in the Alsace, another great wine making area which has passed hands between France and Germany over the centuries. Mama's line stayed with the property in northern Italy and there Mama and Papa live today."

"I thought they lived back home in America."

"No. They are very European."

"So why do you live there?"

"Mama wanted me to have an American education, so after my initial education in France, I went to Rowan University. I preferred it to one of the large ones and it had a good course in architecture. There are many of our relatives in New York, Jersey, Long Island, Connecticut, so I was still in the bosom of the family."

"Tell me the truth Emile." Colette insisted. "Any Mafioso?"

"No." He laughed at he suggestion. "We're northern Italians not Sicilians or Corsicans. Basically we're a pretty boring bunch."

"So why didn't you go into the winery." Colette was digging now.

"I have always had two loves. Singing and architecture. My voice was not good enough for Operatic training, so I turned to my other love and have never regretted it."

"You say you get a lot of work from Italians."

"Yes, talk about la famiglia. We all look after each other."

"How interesting. So this is all Papa's side?"

"Oh yes, a prolific mob. Italians breed like rabbits."

Colette giggled, but would not be put off. "And Papa? How did they meet? Why are they on her property?"

"Oh, It's all very romantic." Emile shook his head and dismissed the romance with an airy wave of his hand. "Mama was studying at the Sorbonne in Paris and Papa was studying in Rome. It was kismet that they met in Venice through mutual friends they were traveling with. Just before they graduated."

"Oh what a lovely story. How romantic." Dreamily Colette imagined the two lives entwining in the most romantic of cities. Leaning back, she looked into his face. "What did Papa study?"

"Architecture."

"Oh my goodness, no wonder. Did...??"

"Well they lived in Rome for a while and he practiced, but the lure of the property in Emilia Romagno drew them both back when Mama's parents were too old to run it any more. And they have never regretted it, they both love the life."

"There's a book in there somewhere." Colette was giving it some serious thought, as Emile lovingly drew her head into his shoulder.

"I'm blessed, as lucky as my papa meeting my mama." Contentedly he caressed her wonderful sunset colored hair.

"Thank you again for being with me. You kept me safe." Colette murmured.

"Don't forget my families have survived terrors of the past. It's in my blood. This was a snip." Emile assured her.

On Boxing Day they snuck down to La Galerie des Gobelins bar and indulged themselves on chocolate and pastries, whilst being entertained by the sound of a harp. They really didn't have to leave the hotel to have all their needs met. "But we have to walk it off." Colette pulled Emile outside again.

"I can think of another way to burn off the calories." Grinning he followed.

"Let you into a secret," she whispered. "I don't think we've put on an ounce." They were so happy. 'Don't let anything spoil this please,' she begged the old Pagan Gods who didn't mind you enjoying yourself.

Chapter 91 – Tel Aviv/New York late December 2006

The lights in the windows of the Mossad office in the far right hand corner of the building did not dim until after dark this night. Ami was closeted with two of his special operatives.

"You will fly into New York and be ready for a mission next week."

"And?" the agents enquired. The elite Metsada troops were trained to obey orders without question. Ami was revered by them and they would follow him to hell if need be. Experts in covert operations, terrorism and explosives, they crossed borders and entered countries like gray ghosts, unnoticed as they blended into the crowd. Feared by their enemies, they were the equivalent of Delta force in the US Marines. Trained killers without compassion.

"I want you to plant Semtex on board a private Learjet in New York. Set it to detonate precisely eight hours off shore on the day of the flight. There must be no survivors and no trace of the plane or the black box."

"Damage control?" they asked.

"Pilot and steward are expendable."

The man and woman looked at him impassively. Not an unusual request. They had been down this road many times before. Sounded like a simple operation.

"Any chance of someone carrying it on board?"

"Maybe when the meals are placed on board. Infiltrate there."

"That's a possibility? Maintenance crew?"

"Don't know how difficult that would be to infiltrate."

"We've got contacts everywhere, both should be possible." The operatives looked at each other. "Two would be better than one in case of failure."

"Agreed. Supplies are no problem."

And so Basil's fate was decided.

"What about the woman?" he had asked his superiors. "She seems to know too much about us. We cannot afford to have this published."

"She cannot harm us," they assured him. "Look at the articles that have been published, the books that have been written, the documentaries and movies that have been made. Nothing changes." The head of his unit swiveled his chair to the side and leaned back. "Harming her will draw attention to us, just as her husband has drawn the attention to himself. Leave her be." And he swiveled back to face Ami, making sure he understood the order.

"Perhaps we could let him kill her." Ami suggested.

"No," the man opposite him lent forward to emphasize his point. "She has too high a profile and her death could draw attention to us. We cannot risk it."

"Two for the price of one." Ami thought the offer generous.

The order had come from the top. "Leave her be, and do not question our decision."

And so, the idiosyncrasies of world politics; intelligence agencies working together for their respective Governments' vested interests, shrugged their respective shoulders and spared Colette's life.
Chapter 92 – Sierra Leone December 2006

Little had changed in the lives of ordinary Sierra Leone's. The end of the war, and peace, had not brought them the prosperity they hoped for.

As Ira flew in by helicopter over the area surrounding the mine he now owned and controlled. The miners looked up to see who was flying in. They were now free men and held licenses issued by the government for artisanal mining. Daily, they strove to uncover enough of the elusive gems that they hoped would make them as rich as the ruling elite had been.

Shanties now abounded around the area where the miners and their families lived and scoured the open pits 8 hours a day. Most of them earned less than under $100 per month for their efforts.

The operation was far more sophisticated, now they had invested in the heavy earthmoving equipment, which roamed the hummocks of the open face mines. Diggers, raced around like busy termites filling large dump trucks with dirt, which would be taken away to the edges of the area and discarded. Bobcats redistributed the dirt, which graders smoothed down.

Removal of large amounts of rock and materials, called overburden, was managed by blasting, and this was affecting large areas of land and surrounding ecosystems. The mine drainage was also a problem. People living in the area were making complaints to the local authorities, who were largely ignoring them. If they were not working their own cesspit, they were working for Ira for a pittance.

Tons of dirt needed to be removed to find the diamond rich rock, which was then drilled till the ore was located and extracted, by machinery which had been built at great cost.

For greater profitability, the new company had invested in a mobile mineral plant which could be moved to different sites as they opened up the area. This replaced the laborious hand screening processes and was far more efficient.

It was easy to operate, was cost effective, highly mobile, low maintenance and could fit into small spaces.

X-ray machines scanned the ore, locating the valuable gemstones before the ore was broken down carefully by precision tools. The crushed ore was washed in large rotating drums called scrubbers and fed to gently sloped, vibrating, double decked, slotted screens, to sieve out three size fractions. The unpolished diamonds were then extracted, by passing over shaking tables covered with grease, which catches and retains the diamonds. These were then washed in acid and dried, ready to be taken out to the Diamond offices, to be valued.

The latest attempt to curb the illicit trafficking of the diamonds had been put into place, called the Kimberley certification process. Ira and other smugglers, laughed in the face of these regulations, knowing it had created conditions perfect for a black market.

What miner could hold out for a fair price for individual diamonds, when he could walk away with money in his hand so his family could eat? The system naturally lent itself to cartels, with the ability to funnel all the diamonds through a few favored suppliers and get bulk prices for their swag.

Here they received the Kimberley certificate, before being smuggled out of the country. As the mines were regulated, some of the diamonds had to be declared, so resource rents could be collected.

Diamond offices had been set up in towns, looking for all the world like an American frontier town during the gold rush. Every store front lining the dusty main streets had paintings of large diamonds with signs advertising Diamond Buying Office, often misspelled, luring villagers from miles around with promises of easy money if they dug holes, scoured and sieved, instead of farming to feed their families.

The diamond buyers were not generous men and the normal price paid for a small inferior diamond, was around US $1.

"It is hardly worth my while." A miner had grumbled to a foreign journalist recently. "I cannot clothe, feed and educate my family on this. Recently I found a larger diamond, but by the time I shared the $65 I was paid with my partners, there was not much left to live on."

Unfortunately, the miners were their own worst enemy. With a find of this size, they would take a month off and drink palm wine, to relieve the unmitigating misery of their lives, before they returned to the heartbreaking and backbreaking word of scouring the alluvial deposits for the wealth they hoped would free them for life.

Ira would have no truck with complaints, considering himself an equal opportunity employer.

"If they kept at it, and used their wits, they could build on their capital, but as long as they keep pissing it away, they'll be free in name only."

"It reminds me of our ancestors who were enslaved for centuries in Europe." Ami mulled over the unfortunate workers" lot. Behind the scenes, Mossad remained an active partner.

"Oi Vey." Ira brushed away this comparison. "The difference is our people worked their tails off when they had a chance. Unlike these savages, who do nothing with an education? They're simply not interested, would rather take their chances in the mines." He dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

"Education on its ownis not enough Ira. You know that," Ami rejoined. "The opportunities to work must be there. These war torn countries are literally coming back from the dead. Their resources stripped and stashed away in Swiss bank accounts, there is nothing left for them to rebuild their country. They have to start all over again. It's only natural the people revert back to the only source of income they know."

Ira sniffed and dismissed the continuing misery of the Sierra Leoneans.

He had known Sankoh would blow it and sure enough when he had been placed under house arrest in March 2000, after he broke his promises to disarm his troops and they captured 300 members of the UN Peacekeeping force.

And now he was dead. Felled in 2002, by complications after a stroke.

"Who would have thought that vicious bastard would have died of natural causes. It finally brought peace to the region." Ira triumphantly told Ami the previous year. "We bought the mine, just in time."

Ami, who, from his own life, was inured to the horrors of war, agreed wholeheartedly.

In the meantime, Ira had the agreement for his purchase safely in his pocket, duly ratified by the then Vice President of the country and countersigned by the President. Ira had paid over the money and they had accepted. It was a fait accompli. A coup.

Ira regularly took out hauls of the ill-gotten gains, complete with supposedly legal certification. For a price, the diamonds came with certificates claiming they were from legitimate mining operations but forgeries of those documents could be bought in the mining areas." Some regulators would sign anything.

His main mission now, was to analyze the mine's capacity. Capital investment, had been sunk into essential equipment, but a good tax accountant could write this off.

He already owned one of the world's largest diamond companies in Antwerp, that cut and polished the stones. Mossad had been more than generous with their contributions, to ensure a smooth operation. If he could tie up the mining, sales, and preparation of the diamonds and other stones that could also be found, he would become a major player in the diamond industry. The next step would be to buy up a number of diamond and jewelry companies, so he could control both the wholesale and retail arms of his output.

The fledgling Internet was of interest also. He saw no reason why gemstones could not be sold to the middle class through this medium. It would open up an entirely new marketplace for him.

Diamonds are a finite resource, which is why every man and his dog are after them before supplies run out. The fate of Indian diamonds is a good example of what the future might hold for the South African diamond-mining industry. From the first discovery of the gems in India until relatively recently, it is thought that over 12 million carats originated from India. By the mid-20th century, the resources were nearly depleted, and India was producing only about 100 carats annually.

Life was still a grim grind for Sierra Leoneans. Ira's life was beyond their understanding.
Chapter 93 – Paris, France December 2006

Not to be missed on their trip was The Rodin Musee housed in the beautiful Hotel Biron. Described in the guides of the eighteenth century as the most remarkable of the realm and is a prime example of the Rococo style. The name is misleading as this is not a hotel, but one of the great houses of the aristocracy.

Gazing upon Rodin's most famous sculpture The Thinker located in the magnificent gardens, Emile and Colette regretted they could not linger longer but it was too cold. Other statues in the gardens could be viewed from the back of the house, but they did not do them justice, so they walked quickly amongst them, Balzac, The Burghers of Calais, The Gates of Hell which had been inspired by Ghiberti's gates of Paradise on the Baptistry in Florence.

A new exhibition area had been opened with many of Rodin's sculptures that had been locked away in the basement of the Hotel for decades on display. Now they breathed again, along with the drawings of them Rodin made before creating them.

"We have to come back one summer and linger amongst them as they deserve," Emile suggested.

"Let's have a look at the works of his disciple and mistress, Camille Claudel." Colette led Emile into Room six where the works were displayed. "I love this piece in greenish onyx marble, The Conversation. Apparently the stone is very hard to work with, and I love the way it portrays a simple everyday occasion, not as grandiose as Rodin's works."

"Over here is her Vertumnus and Pomona. The elegance of line. You can feel the unbridled passion in The Waltz, not some formal piece. Rodin's piece of Aurora is Camille's face as she often posed for him. Some say she was more brilliant than Rodin, but she was unsuccessful and eventually descended into dire misery and eventually insanity. It's very sad."

Suddenly she whirled around, narrowly missing one of the exhibits. "Oh Emile, I'm sorry. I get so carried away. I'm not boring you am I?"

"I'm having a ball. I've been to Paris many times, but never have I enjoyed it more." He reassured her, placing a gentle kiss on her nose. "This is why your novels sell so well, your enthusiasm for life carries into everything you do."

"I don't want to be selfish and only bring you to what I am interested in."

"I have to admit that I have never been here before. It's fascinating. I was mainly concentrating on architecture when I came to Paris."

"I don't blame you, the architecture is outstanding. I think their twelfth century is the most elegant in the world."

"The French? In a word. Elegance." Emile agreed.

Another favorite of Colette's, the Musee d'Orsay was on the left bank and she was delighted that Emile shared her love of the Impressionists.

Manet, Monet, Degas, Cezanne, Pissaro, Odilon Redon, Sisley, Van Gogh, Seurat, Gaugin, Toulose-Lautrec. A feast for the eyes. Far too little time to take in so much. Room after room of them. Sit for a while and quietly allow yourself to be drawn in to the painting, see what the painter saw. The simplicity of every day life, masterfully recreated by these incredibly complex impressionist painters.

"I try and sit as long as I can amongst them every time I come to Paris," Collette enthused. "They draw me in. I soak in the atmosphere, try to become one of the characters. I love the colors, the lightness, and the brightness. Oh Emile, look at this one. It's so natural and you know exactly how they feel with all that awful pile of ironing to finish."

Emile watched her face. It was alive. At one with the painting she was gazing at with such joy. Degas' Les repasseuses – Women Ironing.

"I love how he took women in their occupations and every day situations and presented them with such clarity." She loved sharing secrets with him. "I can sit for days looking at the Impressionists, but I can't view the artworks in the Louvre for long periods. Even though I adore them as I find the old masters overwhelming and unless I view them in small clumps, I get a headache. I visit one city at a time so I can drink in the different styles. Florentine, Byzantine, Venetian. They are all so glorious, but it takes years to view, absorb and love."

"I quite agree." Emile had grown up surrounded by exquisite paintings.

"I sit for hours in little churches in Tuscany and Venice. It astounds me, which you can walk into a church in the middle of nowhere; and behind the altars are Tintoretto's or Caravaggio's. In those settings, they stand out so much more than in a museum, where they are competing with so many others just as wonderful," she continued. "In small villages churches, large and small, are the most wonderful statuary, moldings, paintings by artisans, who are not even recognized as the masters were."

"It's such a wealth of talent and beauty isn't it." Emile smiled down at her fondly, enjoying her enthusiasm. How her face glowed when she spoke of the culture and history of Europe.

"Have you been to Southern Germany?"

"No, I haven't."

"It's exquisite. They are catholic and the churches are as magnificent as anything in France and Italy. I hope you like traveling to other countries Emile?"

"I love it. Did Europe when I was a student, but want to go back and take one city at a time."

"Best to base yourself in a town like Versailles and you can cover the North and down through the Loire Valley. Then on to Grasse on the Cote d'Azure. The Ligurian Coast in Italy is divine, Tuscany for Florence and so on and so on."

"We'll go everywhere if that's what you want. My practice is really established now. I'm thinking of taking on a partner."

"Emile, that's wonderful." Colette could not have been more pleased for him.

Feeling tired, they returned to the hotel and their conversation about his family lines.

"Emile. What did the Italian side of your family own? The Vatican?" she probed.

"Well, not quite," he muttered, eyes downcast.

"Look at me." Laughingly she raised his chin so his eyes met hers. "Emile, Look at me. What do you mean, not quite."

Emile took a deep breath and raised his eyes again. "Italians are very family oriented and they all have a Don in the family, no matter where they come from."

Colette's eyebrows rose so high, they almost disappeared into her hairline.

"If you think the Sicilians and Venetians love intrigue, the Florentines leave them for dead. Remember that's where the Borgias originated."

"Don't tell me you've had a Pope in the family," her eyes were like saucers.

"Nooooo, but we have had a couple of high ranking Cardinals and a Camerlengo or two."

"A what?"

"Well, they are the Pope's personal secretary and hold a lot of power."

"I know what they are. For a family to have one or two of them and a couple of cardinals is no mean feat." By now, she was feeling a bit dazed and overwhelmed. "And Uncle Lorenzo?"

"Mmmmm." Emile stalled for time, looking around desperately to see if anyone was going to come to the rescue. "He is huge in banking circles and has contacts with the Vatican bank."

"Emile, I'm just a simple little American girl from Connecticut. What will this illustrious connected family think of me?"

"They'll love you to bits. Uncle Lorenzo has already spread the word."

"But they're wealthy clannish Italians. They won't approve of you marrying an American."

"They couldn't stop me the first time and they won't want to stop me this time." Emile stood up and pulled her to her feet. "Uncle Lorenzo loves you to death."

"I adore him and will never be able to repay him."

"And my Aunt Paolo. Uncle has so much power, but loves her to pieces and she's the true power in the family. She's the Don-ess." Dropping his voice to a whisper, he pulled his shoulders high towards his neck and looked sinister.

"I loved her. She was so kind to me. I'm terrified to ask what her family background is."

Emile roared with laughter. "Another time. The Rotolo's are taking over our lives."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, they'll insist we are married on his estate in America and you have never experienced an Italian wedding. Trust me, it's like a Broadway production."

"Wouldn't it be lovely to be married quietly on your parent's estate?"

"That's not how Italians do it. We certainly can marry there, but the clan will descend on us and overwhelm you."

"Emile, you're surrounded by estates. You are to the manor born."

"I don't want to be."

"Wouldn't it have been much easier for you? Cushy job to fall into etc."

"In some ways and yet in others there would have been enormous expectations and I didn't want a cushy job. I'm my own man and I want to tread my own path in life."

"Have you brothers and sisters?"

"No, I'm an only child."

"And they let you leave the family businesses?"

"You have no idea, the French are just as clannish as the Italians, but I am very lucky, my parents are very far sighted and fair-minded. They wanted me to be what I wanted to be, which is why they educated me in America. Finance was not for my father either. He loved architecture so much he just had to do it."

"And the family let him."

"After hysterical arguments and much arm waving and shouting, threats of disinheritance. Accusations of how he would bring down the Italian Government single handedly. They stopped short of excommunication."

Colette's laughter pealed out and Emile was delighted to hear it. "Is he forgiven?"

"Long ago. They adore my mother and their happiness is so obvious, no-one could stay mad at them for long."

"What about the French side of the family?"

"More histrionics. Oh I forgot the tears, they flowed like the Tiber and Rhone together."

She giggled again at the thought of it, then grew serious again thinking of the pride they must have had in their achievement. "What will happen to the estate when they pass on?"

"I don't know. Maybe I will be ready to live there then. It would be a lovely retirement." He looked at her keenly. "How would you feel about that?"

"It sounds divine. What a wonderful place to write my novels. I adore Europe and the European way of life."

He gathered her to him. "I knew you were so right for me that first night we met. I was so worried you would not let me into your life."

"I just needed a little time to breathe after Basil." And a dark cloud crossed her face.

"Hush," he cautioned and held her close. "It will be alright. He will never find us in Europe."

"What about when we return?"

Drawing back, he looked into her eyes. "Trust me. Everything will be alright. If we have to, we can move to Italy." However, he knew they would not have to go to those lengths. They were under Uncle Lorenzo's protection. His reach was longer than Ambrose's could ever hope to be. "You must trust me."

"I do." Looking back into his eyes, she knew she would be safe with this man and his family.

Once again, he drew her to him and they contentedly wrapped themselves around each other, not saying much unless there was something to be said.

Drawing back, she looked at him perhaps a little too brightly. "We'll travel, travel forever. Turkey, Greece, Prague, Russia. So many places to see and so many stories to write about them." Beckoning him closer, she whispered. "I have to research all my books you know."

Whilst Emile nodded enthusiastically, he could feel a hint of hysteria coming from Colette and realized she saw this as an escape from Basil.

Maybe they would have to be adaptable and if that were the case, he could fit into whatever the family would offer in Europe. Colette was worth it and he had made his mark. He could still design magnificent houses in Italy.

Holding hands, they walked outside, hailed a taxi and surprisingly enough, survived the trip with a French taxi driver back to the hotel where they made love again, as lovers do in Paris.
Chapter 94 – The World late December 2006

It was the aftermath of Christmas. That season of the year when Christians worship a man whose message to the world was: "Do unto others as ye would do unto thyself," and preached compassion for everyone.

The Learjet stood on the tarmac. Two people stood in the shadows by the hangars, watching the passengers board and the pre flight checks being carried out. Two hours earlier they had boarded the plane and stocked the kitchen with food and liquor for the flight. No questions were asked by the stewardess, as the flights were catered by the company that supplied all the catering needs to the Bank's boardrooms.

It had been a simple enough for the good looking male of the team to chat up the stewardess, whilst the female agent stocked up the larder and bar. Semtex wasn't on the menu or the liquor order, but that was by the by and no-one suspected they were carrying extra provisioning. The male agent couldn't allow himself any regrets.

Basil hastily gathered up the pouch of diamonds that he had been delivered to him at the Bank. His bags had been delivered to the plane and he had only to leave the office and get out to La Guardia to board the plane. Driving through the traffic was frustrating but as he took the Bank's limousine, it was not his nerves that were frayed maneuvering through the chaos. That's what the chauffeur was paid for.

Ira sat in the drawing room of his home in Caesarea, a drink in his hand, looking thoughtfully out at the sea. The view was spectacular and within a few hours his mind would be at peace. Basil's replacement had already been primed and it was a certainty no-one else would let their ego get in the way of the Cartel's two foreign intelligence agencies and the Bank's needs, not to mention a Russian Jew Oligarch's Empire.

Christian pilgrims had flooded into Bethlehem and Jerusalem for the celebration of their icon's birth.

The Israelis had suffered the influx into their country at this time of the year. They had celebrated Hannukah, the Festival of Lights on December 11 this year. The celebration commemorates the Maccabees' military victory over the Seleucids and the rededication of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. In the meantime, they remained ever vigilant.

The Palestinians had huddled miserably in their villages and the refugee camps, wondering whether the misery in their lives would ever end and envied the freedom of movement that the Christians enjoyed which they themselves were denied within their own homeland.

The militants amongst them, kept training suicide bombers, who recorded their wills echoing of pathos in the hopelessness of their cause.

The legacy in Angola was the estimated six million landmines that continued to kill or maimed civilians at the rate of one accident every other day.

The multinationals kept right on plundering over Christmas. After all it was the season to be jolly and they were jolly happy to be lining their deep pockets.

Despite the ceasefire in most sub-Saharan African wars, many African nationals wondered what there was to be jolly about, as many of them died from wide spread starvation and disease.

Russians had celebrated Christmas by getting drunk, as it was cold enough to freeze the balls off the proverbial brass monkey. They remained drunk through the New Year celebrations and would do so for the remainder of the New Year, Century or until the economy picked up, whichever arrived soonest.

Arkadiy boarded the company jet which was kept at Sherementov Airport, glad to head to the Mediterranean for some sun and warmer weather.

Chapter 95 – The Cote d'Azure December 2006

The next morning the lease car was delivered and Emile and Colette set off in a Peugeot 40. Holding their breath as they maneuvered through the madness of the Place d'Etoile, and safely onto the Peripherique, they headed down towards the Loire Valley.

Emile had yet another surprise in store for her, he was going to drive through to Chinon to show her his ancestors' old Chateau which was still outside the town, although in crumbling decay. There had never been enough family money to return and rebuild. Chateaux were very costly and the vineyards had run to rack and ruin centuries before. It had been simpler to stay in the places they had all resettled in. They would stay overnight in Chinon before heading off to Tours for a quick two day visit and then on to the Cote d'Azure to spend a couple of days in Grasse.

Chinon was a delightful medieval village and they had spent longer walking around the narrow cobbled streets, peering into shop windows despite the cold. Running laughing into a bistro, rubbing their hands together to warm them, and ordering mulled wine for the internal man and woman.

The Loire Valley area is famous for Pouilly-Fume with its bewitching perfume, rich aroma and distinctive flavor.

Sancerre is produced on the other bank of the river, so delicately live and pure. They ducked into a charming wine store to buy some of each to take with them on the trip.

Tours is a city and would take longer than a couple of days to see everything, so they contented themselves with visiting the famous Château d'Azay-le-Rideau and resting. At this time of the year, it was difficult driving on the icy roads and they were taking their time. There was plenty of time to return and ferret around leisurely.

The Chateau was an experience of things that once were. Azay, the graceful Château was built on an island on the River Indre, surrounded by a glorious park. One of the gems of the French Renaissance, they wandered through the sumptuous interior absorbing the ancient atmosphere. Colette turned to Emile and holding his arm and snuggling into him, whispered.

"Can you feel yourself living here in the days of glory? Are the ghosts of the past calling to you?"

He looked at her quizzically to see if she was serious.

"I'm teasing you. It would have been rather nice wouldn't it, but if there is no feeling of déjà vu, then I guess we both dipped out."

"I'll let you into a little secret." Emile responded. "They were bloody cold places in winter. Huge fireplaces only heated the immediate areas."

"I know. And they all smelt to high heaven, bathing was not a daily occurrence. All dressed in the height of fashion and smelly. I guess as everyone else was just as high, they didn't notice the difference."

Laughing gaily together, they continued their exploration of the luxurious abode.

"Imagine the upkeep on the place. Do you know they even changed the winter wall coverings in Versailles, from velvet to silk in summer. Unbelievable. Living that life of incredible, outrageous luxury in the midst of appalling poverty and hunger. The King had Castles everywhere. No wonder the peasants revolted." Ever the pragmatist, Colette looked around.

"They finally paid a high price." Emile's own family history crept into his psyche and he shuddered.

"Oh darling, I'm sorry, another faux pas.

"Don't be silly, you have a right to your opinion and mine is pretty much the same. The decadence couldn't go on for much longer and it was the beginning of peasants revolting throughout Europe. Maybe one day we'll see a really fair distribution of wealth, but somehow I doubt it very much."

This sobered them both and they left the luxurious Chateau with their silent thoughts of the ghosts that walked the halls, perhaps still holding wonderful balls and hunting in the King's forest.

Chapter 96 – South of France January 2007

Colette and Emile headed off towards the Cote d'Azure and warmer weather, taking the auto route down to Lyon, where they would leave the fast highway in France, to drive through small villages in Provence she wanted to share with Emile. It was cozy in the interior of the vehicle with the heating system turned up high and they were quite comfortable and contented in each other's company.

Idly gazing out of the window as they sped past the lavender and sunflower fields, which were laying dormant ready to burst into magnificence again in the summer, Colette felt contented. How she loved this area where the huge sunflowers nodded drowsily in the sun in summer, looking for all the world like massive bumble bees, to whom they were host. And the lavender carpets spreading for miles. Avoiding the motorways and taking the more indirect secondary roads, brought the most magnificent reward for those who took the time to pass that way.

Monasteries perched on top of mountainous peaks, sometimes with small villages alongside them. "It still amazes me how on earth they managed to build up there. Amazing feats of courage." Colette remarked to Emile.

"Unbelievable isn't it? Can you imagine the work quarrying all the stones and dragging them up there by mule and laboriously laying the blocks of stone one by one?"

Emile nodded as his gaze swept upwards to a monastery which looked as though it was in direct contact with the God the inhabitants prayed to.

He reached across and taking her hand, laid it on his thigh and held it for a while as they both became lost in their thoughts while continuing on their way. It was over the border and straight on to the glorious Italian Ligurian Peninsula.

Chapter 97 – Portofino, Italy- January 2007

Heaven breathed and made Portofino, Pearl of the Mediterranean which was cozily tucked into the side of a small wooded promontory on the blue Mediterranean Sea. Blessed with the Italian Riviera's sunny climate it was heaven on earth.

The waterfront is lined with multicolored pastel buildings, canopied outdoor cafes and a quay fit for strolling young lovers.

Much of the small coastal town's appeal is due to its magnificent location at a point along the Riviera; where the rocky cliffs tumble down to meet the azure waters of the Mediterranean. Colored houses dot the hillside above the village, and the buildings in Portofino itself are decked out in a spectrum of colors, ranging from pink to yellow to orange.

Even back in Roman times Portofino was called the world's most charming port. Nineteenth century sweethearts called it the perfect romantic hideaway. Its surrounding hills host bougainvillea-garnished villas owned by the rich and famous. During the day, the beautiful people like to hang out in the trendy restaurants and cafes around the main square soaking up the sun.

Tourists fall in love with the village and traipse around goggle eyed at the super yachts anchored in the harbor.

The lovers were booked into the aptly-named Splendido Hotel, a former Benedictine monastery that was transformed into a luxury hotel in 1901, hosting such luminaries as Greta Garbo, The Duke of Windsor, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, Rita Hayworth and Liz Taylor and Richard Burton.

A mere five hundred years ago, monks, abandoned this idyllic spot and fled to the hills. Heaven would have to be something indeed to beat Portofino and those same monks must be flagellating themselves daily for their rash abandonment of paradise.

The hotel was situated high in the hills with stunning views overlooking Portofino's harbor with its sparkling blue water. As Colette and Emile wove their way to the sea, it led them down sun drenched, grape-vined terraces, manicured gardens, and through the wilder growth with tangled olive trees and stone paths. Bushes caressed them, as they brushed past and the sun shone warmly and browned their bodies. For the first time in a while, they felt so carefree, if only for a short time before the reality of the threat of Basil intruded once again.

Each day they lingered in the oversized beds and frolicked, tete-a-teted on the flower strewn balcony and danced in the piano bar. The interior décor was dreamily Belle Epoque, black and

white marble tiled floors and delicate trompe d'oeil scenes painted on pastel walls. Bedrooms feminine, softly hued, with subtly flowered bedspreads. It made them feel so decadent and encouraged them to explore each other's sensuality.

Strolling into the quaint cafes that overlooked the small harbor and lined the narrow, cobbled streets, they sat for hours enjoying each other or exploring the surrounding coastline, where tiny villages are tucked away in hidden coves.

Dining alfresco and drinking drinking cocktails the price of a modest-sized house at the many restaurants right on the water, they lost themselves in the Ligurian cuisine with its phenomenal fresh pasta, pesto and ambrosial seafood. Sampling the crisp, fresh white Pinot Grigio from Santa Margherita, they wanted more. Warmed by the good food, wine and each other, they strolled hand in hand before sunset, to the tip of the peninsula to enjoy the blaze of color as the Sun God reclaimed his light.

One morning they climbed the steps from the port leading to the little parish church of San Giorgio. Arriving at the entrance of an old castle, they stepped inside the walls, to feast their eyes upon a lush garden and the panoramic stunning views of the town and harbor below.

"God, how romantic." Emile wound his arms around Colette as they stood languidly feasting their eyes on the astounding sight. "I'll never forget this."

There was no need for words as they continued on, passing old private villas, towering trees, until they reached the lighthouse. Colette trailed her hands across the bushes and they lingered again feasting their eyes. Strolling back down the hill to the main piazza, they called in to a little bar on the left side of the square for a glass of champagne, before returning to the hotel.

During boat rides around the coast to such points as San Fruttuoso, they held hands and drank in the atmosphere of the Mediterranean, while Colette kept stealing glances at the glowing emerald on her left hand, which would keep a village in Africa for a lifetime.

Ten days passed. It was like a surreal dream, as fate propelled them inexorably towards their destiny. Soon they would move on to the beautiful city of Florence, with its wonderful art and architecture.

From there they planned to go on the Lake Maggiore and spend some time in Baveno in The Rigoli, a family run hotel that Colette knew well and loved. The lake laps gently against the private beach where the resident swan parks himself for most of the day, abducting only at 5am when the entire seagull population of Lake Maggiore congregate outside and noisily announce their presence until the owners obligingly feed them, when the cacophony rises to a total frenzy. Replete, they depart and the resident swan returns and preens happily for most of the day.

From there they would travel to Emilia Romagno to meet Emile's parents. Colette's heart gave a small flutter as she prayed they would like their son's choice for a wife.

Occasionally, small niggles of Basil came back to haunt her, but she brushed them away; determined to enjoy the moment.

The day they were due to leave Portofino, before they strolled down to the waterside for coffee and fresh Italian bread, Colette was, leaning against the wrought iron balcony languidly gazing at the view and feeling slightly guilty about enjoying such luxury when millions were living under such horrific circumstances.

Emile strolled over and picked up the newspaper Le Monde that had been left outside their door. Glancing idly at the paper, his eye was caught by a smaller headline. A gasp of delight escaped his lips and he excitedly called out "Colette. Come here darling, quickly."

"Emile, What's wrong." Colette hurried back across the room, her face pale and wan, expecting the ghost of Basil returning to haunt them. "Damn, she had not thought of him for days and almost wept, as she expected the clap of Silent Doom to break over their happiness.

"Look, look here." He took her arm and pointed excitedly. "It's all over darling. You're safe now." And he pointed to the headlines.

Le Banquier international d"Investissement meurt dans l"accident d"avion. Learjet a perdu dans la route de en de Mediterranen à TEL Aviv.

International Merchant banker dies in Crash. LearJet lost in the Mediterranean, en route to TEL AVIV.

"Basil Mortimer, a partner in the well known English investment bank, Ambrose, was lost in the Mediterranean presumed dead, when the private Lear jet he was traveling to Tel Aviv on went down in the Mediterranean killing all on board. Mystery surrounds the tragedy and the water is too deep for a rescue to be mounted, or to recover the black box."

"The jet was always kept in pristine condition and we have no explanation for this tragedy." A bank spokesman, Sir Reginald Arbuthnot, said. "Mr Mortimer was a great asset to the Bank and we will miss his input tremendously."

Colette read and reread the article. Her entire body felt as though it was melting snow as it began to release the tension of the past two years and she sagged into Emile's outstretched willing arms.

"It's over, it's finally over." Teardrops glistened on her eyelashes, threatening to spill over. "Poor Basil." A trail of tears found their way down her face, for the man she had once shared a life with. "Poor man."

Emile was astounded at the generosity of this woman he loved, as he gently reminded her. "He left a legacy of greed and misery in his wake Colette."

"Oh Emile. I know. But we are all the products of our legacies. His was not a happy one." She sobbed and he understood the pain she felt was for a tortured soul, rather than her own plight.

"We're so lucky. We can go home and live our lives without fear. Pass on a better legacy to our children and descendants." Emile raised her chin and looked deeply into her large emerald eyes. "This tragedy has made our love stronger. It has not driven us apart."

"I know," she snuffled in a most unladylike manner, which Emile found endearing. "We pull together, not apart, as Basil and I used to."

His face reflected the deep and abiding love he had for her. "And do you trust me enough to marry me?"

"Oh yes." A light came on behind her pain and sorrow, lighting her face with joy.

Emile released the breath he had been holding. "And will you marry me and let me look after you."

"Oh yes." Colette replied – and the sun shone brighter.

Epilogue

Jerusalem – January 2010

Ira, Ami and Reuven were meeting.

"Business is good. We did very well bringing Coltan out of the Congo. The mine in Africa is producing well, and we are now researching mining for gold as well."

In central Africa, Tantalum is extracted from an ore called Coltan, It is found in alluvial deposits or mined in primitive open-cut pits by workers. Millions of dollars worth had been funnelled out of the Congo during the genocidal wars, and continued post war era. Since the wars ended, it continued to be mined by desperate children.

"The Kimberley process didn't impede the flow of diamonds from the mine in SL did it?" Ami knew first hand, the clandestine trafficking went on unimpeded.

"Not really. Let's face it, the Kimberley process, was just another de Beers scheme to maintain control of the world's diamonds again, so they could fix prices of the gemstones." Ira caustically remarked. "It was working until the financial crisis struck."

"And South America?"

"We've done well out of Venezuela and Brazil over the past few years." Ira turned a few pages over and handed a sheet of paper to Ami.

"It certainly helped when Venezuela stopped reporting their diamond exports in 2005." Ami nodded vigorously.

"Well, particularly as they were one of the founding members of the Kimberley. It's apparent what they'd been up to." Ira didn't mind one bit, as it had all worked out in the Cartel's favor. "No one can stop them. They're just the pariah dog now."

Reuven the accountant offered his comment. "Their diamonds have been pouring onto the black market, funding drugs, terrorism and gun smuggling. The Cartels are laundering dirty money with them." He made it his business to keep an eye on their rivals.

"They're coming out of Guyana and Panama," Ira said, with a flash of certainty.

"Hmmmm." Ami's job was to report back to his section leader, so he wanted to know they were inviolate. "Does this pose a threat to us?"

"The Diamond market watchdog has investigators, but they're toothless." Ira reassured him. "The diamond production centres in Bolivar and on the Venezuelan-Brazil border aren't regulated and motor on despite any government efforts to regulate mining activity."

"There's a network of individuals purchasing rough stones from artisan miners," Ira laughed sarcastically. "Brazil pulled out of the Kimberley Process in 2006."

"So, we're looking good?"

"Indeed. Mugabe's turfing people off their land in order to mine for diamonds they've found in the Marenge area. We're back in business with the rogue traders."

"Hmmm." Ira sat back. "I suppose the Human Rights Commissions are beating their chests and bleating about the situation."

"Of course. Human rights violations and exploitation of the populace etc."

"Any chance of them upsetting the apple cart?"

"With Mugabe and his still running the country? Not a chance."

"What about the bigger picture?"

"Not while there's a lack of political will."

And in Moscow, Russia

Arkadiy and his Oligarch were running over the plans for the following year. His master was pissed off, so Arkadiy let him run on until he had let off steam.

"We've done well out of Afghanistan, but we've taking a pounding with Putin pulling back the state owned enterprises Yeltsin sold off. He's a bliad (whore)," his oligarch hissed.

Arkadiy bent forward, his hands clasped in front of him. "If the apparatchiks had not driven the privatization of the Russian economy after the collapse, there would be no international management practices and cutting-edge technology in the Motherland now. Nor would there been the expansion of Russian companies in the West we have seen." He was not just a pretty face.

"Some of us have seen billions of dollars disappear." His master had been at the helm of many of the privatised companies and the expansion into Europe. "We only need to sit tight and wait for the upswing from this damn financial crisis."

Arkadiy wisely kept his counsel.

"As my friend, Yevtushenkov believes, the Kremlin will again re-privatize the companies that it is now taking over. Everyone knows that bureaucrats make poor corporate managers," he concluded.

"We just need to bide our time and we Russians know how to do that."

FINITO

Yvonne Crowe's other novels

The Magdalene Conspiracy

From Serbia With Love

Baring Her Soul

Driven By Lust

www.yvonnecrowe.com
