The Voykovsky files Chapter 1 Read Online for Free

Jonas S Lundberg

The Voykovsky files

the journeys

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

February

On this early evening, It rained freezing sleet against the windows of Smedley & Nixon-Reading asset management, high up on the 37th floor of this lower Manhattan high-rise. This evening not untypical for February. I was looking out of the windows, past my colleagues and the paper cups of coffee and bottles of water lined up on the glass table, hoping our weekly wrap-up meeting would come to an end this Friday late afternoon. As Simon Smedley was in a lengthy conversation with Russell Reading-Nixon, the other co-founder of the company, I was wondering why they did not have the courtesy to have the discussion about a large purchase of private residential apartments in Hungary with asset managers dealing what market. My market was domestic, mostly US east-coast real estate. Simon was pacing up and down the long side of the table, then he walked around it a couple of times. He used to do this at meetings. It is his way of feeling superior, to try to compensate for actually being a very unappealing man, in more aspects than one. Both him and Russell were divorced, no surprised there as they as recently as yesterday late evening had hookers and cocaine in this very meeting room. Everyone knew it, they even boasted about it. The both also really liked meetings, and they especially like to start them on late Friday afternoons and run them for an hour sometimes two you never could tell. To combat boredom, I went over, in my mind, how I would proceed once I got out of this meeting from the start until the end at the home. Home, the new house I had just bought at Sands Point, Long Island after I met Natasha, and she convinced me my one bedroom apartment across the river in Brooklyn was not suited for someone like us when I made close to a million in commission during my three years as a high-end commercial real estate capital broker.

My thoughts were now on all the things I had yet to get done and buy for the house, a nice four bedroom modern built with large floor to ceiling glass windows. The furniture along cost more than my parent's first house. Natasha is of the more demanding type. The daughter of a Russian mother and Slovenian father. We met at the Reading-Nixon & Smedley Hampton's summer weekend party in the summer of 2015. She joined the party as a friend of New York socialite Susan Danzcianc who's husband, more than twice her age, Alfred Danzcianc had provided the start-up capital for Russell and Simon's first reality investment business in 1989 after the pair had graduated from university. As the story goes, back when Russell and Simon started then they actually intended to operate an honest business. Alfred has always been playing by the book, honesty and integrity have always been key to him and at age 104 he shows no signs of not being of reduced mental or much physical capacity. Whilst it could be suggested that Alfred had a weakness in

a desire

for women who tended to be a lot younger than him, in his defense his age pool is considered rather small. And unless proven otherwise he has never had any indiscretions. Alfred was born in Mallorca, Spain. His family had come over to the United States to school in America and live with his uncle who had moved there at the turn of the century. The family has a history of moving around the world with Alfred's father from Albania who had moved to Mallorca to work as an Orange picker where he met Alfred's mother and they eventually bought vineyard to produce quality wine. He was always very handsome and healthy, his looks did not deteriorate much with advancing age but saw himself as a grand exquisite bottle of 1913 Mallorca red wine his father had saved from the year he was born and the second seasons wine from the family wine business. Although his parents had expected him to marry and carry the name further he never actually did during their lifetime until he married Susan in 1988, a fiery beautiful young financial analyst who one of his managers had employed as an accounts assistant. They have a child,

a daughter

, Olivia, 27 who is absolutely stunning. Susan was very good at her job though she left the accounts assistant position and started a fashion magazine in 1993, initially running from the floor above her husband's company, then it moved in 1996 to a half of a floor in a building in Times Square where it has remained ever since. Susan's eye for detail and talent which would bring fruit was faultless. Natasha's parents had submitted her portfolio to some agencies in Paris and Berlin hoping to get jobs there as a junior teen model. Instead, Natasha was picked after Susan had herself found Natasha's photo on a closed Internet news group syndicated by an International agency, headquartered in Berlin, which had Natasha on file. The magazine had been contracted to do a Dior young teen collection for winter 93/94. This was just a week after her office got Internet access, which was still not that common, upcoming technology in 1993. Susan worked with a number of international agencies, one of her main suppliers of models was a then newly set up agency based in Moscow which did a good deal of clothing collection shoots for her magazine. Natasha had signed up with the agency as her college classmate had successfully had landed a Russian billboard campaign for MTS cellular. After some years of non-work, when Natasha was focusing on her schooling, once she had come of age she was sponsored to come to New York and work for a close friend of Susan at FIM-NY Inc; Fashion International Models of New York.

Alfred himself had worked with Wall Street most of his life, successfully navigating through the 1929 stock market crash, the

Great

Depression

, WW2, comforting his brother after the loss of both of the brother's sons in the early days of the Vietnam war. He worked with the Trumps (father and son) and then, in 1981 he started a venture capital firm, Danzcianc ventures Inc. The company, along with Alfred's executive office, where he spent

most of his

time, was located on the 76th floor in the North Tower of the World Trade Center until 9/11/2001. On that fateful day, Alfred was at home in the Hamptons recovering from successful prostate cancer surgery. At home, he had a good portion of the office staff around him as he never stopped working.

Natasha came over to the United States directly from Russia in 2002 on a talent visa to work as a fashion model. She was always successful in getting her contracts and subsequent U.S. Visas renewed and in late 2007 she was considering naturalization but did a 2 years in Paris modeling and was considering living there. In 2011 She was back in New York city again on an O-Visa that time, still modeling. Fast forward to 2015 I felt I had no choice but to fall for this deeply seductive and beautiful woman 2 years my older than myself. She had had one previous relations with with an advertising executive for one of the New York based Magazines she was modeling for. At age 36 it was time for me to meet someone. Apart from the physical attraction, I grew to like her. If I had not met her I would probably live in that small apartment; for me it was a good bachelor pad, in upper Manhattan, within a few minutes walking distance to the number 4,5 and 6 trains. My two young brothers were both married with kids. It was time for me to bring some family of my own to my parents Christmas. My parents were not that into festive things and family gathering, except for Christmas. All

families

are expected to arrive at my parent's house on the outskirts of Quincy, Massachusetts and stay through New Year's day. Natasha came with me to the recent family Christmas. My parents love her and I keep that in mind whenever she gives me a hard time.

“Jonathan!”

Simon interrupted me as I had just remembered I was to stop by Prada on 5th avenue to pick up a new handbag for Natasha from the ‘French laced edition’.

“So you are all set for the trip tonight?”

“Where?” I stumbled as if I had just woken up from a deep sleep.

“As we discussed, whilst you were in some sort of mini coma or whatever you were doing: Los Angeles. We need you for the bidding for space at the Ivar Towers, it is a new office high rise in Hollywood. You know LA best of everyone here, you did work on the Yucca racecourse at Glendale last year. You have to go. Russell and I will be busy on the Budapest deal and we have our Russian co-owners, Sergei and Ivan over

here from

tomorrow until next week.” Russell scribbled “max $30 million p/f” on a post-it and stuck on a printed letter sized sheet which he handed to me. “Don’t go over $30 million per floor. We need at least five floors in that complex, try to get 10.” With one hand I typed a text message to Natasha that I was sorry but had to go to LA, and with the other hand on the laptop to get google flights.

Russell went over to me, closed my laptop lid and told me to just go to the airport, telling me that we don't have to search for cheap deals, just go and fork out the Corporate Amex they've provided me with and get on a plane.

Simon leaned over me at the table with his fingers laced with doughnut residue making an imprint on the thick glass table, I could smell the cigar smoke left lingering in his clothes. He told me that I had to be there for the Monday 10 am. bidding and I had to get on the last flight out tonight at 9pm to get myself set up to ensure I would be there well on-time. Meanwhile, my phone buzzed, Natasha had just replied with “what??” I had to tell her this is my job and what pays for all the things but I the thought of confrontation right now would be one stress I don't need. I messaged her back that I would promise to pick up her bag at Prada.

“Okay I forgive you, just get my bag, they close in half an hour and today is the last day they can hold it. I must have that bag.”

Simon's phone rang and he immediately turned the screen away from us, told the caller to hold on, put the phone to his shirt and said: “Okay suckers, that's all wrapped up.” He walked around the table then stood over me and said: “You, LA!” and waved his other hand at me as someone rather impolitely dismisses a servant and then went back to talking on his phone. We, all, except Russell, scrambled to exit the room. I saw through the partially frosted glass door how Simon carried on talking on his phone. I grabbed my coat and rushed towards the elevators realizing Prada is at least 30 blocks away. I saw Daniel, my co-worker near the elevators. Daniel a very handsome youngish looking blond guy with blue eyes shared pretty much everything with me and likewise me with him. He had managed to avoid the meeting and came into the elevator with me with a tail of Marlboro-smell after him. Daniel had the glow on him. He had met a guy who stayed at the Sheraton a few blocks away. He was on his way back as the guy wanted another round. The guy was taking him to dinner tonight. I told him about the rather unpleasant boring meeting. “It went on and on and to make matters worse Simon was chewing on sugary doughnuts and smearing cigar and jam everywhere.” Daniel made a face as he had just smelled some bad flatulence and said “I wonder who is gonna clean that up now that they got rid of Olga?”

“Olga, the cleaning lady? Oh! no! She is so nice, why on earth?” I asked.

“Apparently Russell had overheard her complaining to Carlos in the break room how she was considering

quitting

as she felt that Simon and Russell had robbed her native Russia of state run assets which had been built up by the people during the Soviet years to be sold off at the “bargain basement” just after communism had fallen. Apparently, Carlos job is hanging on a thread too.”

We parted outside the front entrance. The rain hadn’t stopped and seemed to slow down the already chaotic rush hour traffic. Instead of getting a cab I ran towards the Subway and down the stairs knowing every second count. A number 4 express train had just pulled in and I managed to leap on just as the doors closed. How could this happen? From sitting in a boring meeting five minutes ago to rushing up to get a stupid handbag and then getting a flight across the country I don’t even have a ticket for. Then I had to carry this Prada bag with me across the country and back.

I got to Prada minutes before closing. They had the bag ready for me by the reception. “That will be $4800 plus tax.” The electronic display where I signed for the purchase to my credit card showed $5184. “I bet that is a lot more than what I will spend first class to LA” I mumbled as I signed the credit card sales slip. Wrapped up I got the bag in an elaborate blue-black-brown stitched fabric bag that looked as it itself cost hundreds of dollars. I took some satisfaction in saying: “Do you have anything discrete like a carrier bag to put everything in as I’ll be running outside to take the subway?” The slim male assistant looking me then the bag with a slight look of unease across his face, walked off and went behind a door, came back with a used Duane Reade plastic bag. Outside, the freezing sleet was heavier and fell down as piercing little nails at high speed. The streets were slippery and at total gridlock, so the only hope was rush hour subway.

Standing on the busy Rockaway bound E-train with my briefcase and then the 5k bag in bag-in-bag. Whilst the NYC subway is safe these days it still felt some comfort that people would have little idea of the expensive content of my Duane Reade bag. After all, it could be anything from diapers to multi-buy lotion and aspirin in that bag. The rain had turned into snow as the train rushed through Queens. I checked my phone. The weather icon showed 30 degrees and wind 15 mph north. At Jamaica station, I got on the Airtrain to JFK Airport terminals. I pulled out my phone, Google told me the next available flight to LA was the 9 pm American but by now it was 8.05. Delta had their LA departure at 9.10 pm. Delta terminal was next. I just hoped the snow wasn't going to affect the flights. It was really coming down now. The terminal was not very busy as it was getting late. I walked up to the first and business counter, a beautiful tall woman with long perfectly twinned dreadlocks down to her shoulders which were tied in with weaves in many colors, greeted me. “Hello, My name is Melissa how can I help you?”

“I need to get on the 8.30 pm to Los Angeles please, in front, first”

Melissa typed, smiled: “I am happy to tell you we have seats left in first class. Will that be a round-trip, Sir?”

“Yes please, I think I will be back in three days.”

“All right, that will be $2810.”

I handed her my company Amex. Yup, a lot less than Natasha's bag. As she was typing I couldn't

help but notice

how attractive and just fine she was looking. Her tall slender figure, big brown eyes and full lips were just Dazzling. Her black skin was rich and vibrant and made her saturated red lipstick almost pale by comparison. Everything about her said beauty, brains, class and niceness without being pretentious or bossy. I also noticed she had an accent somewhat British. Whilst she was tapping away at her computer terminal I asked her about her English accent.

“I am originally from Abuja, Nigeria. I schooled some years in Bristol, England went back home married a man who is a doctor, and he got a job here.”

“Do you miss home?” I asked.

“Well since I work for Delta I get a good discount and fly there a couple of times a year. I also go to Accra, Ghana sometimes to visit my sister, in fact I just returned from Ghana a week ago. You should go sometime, it is a nice city and we fly there non-stop from this airport.”

“Thanks so much I will keep that in mind!”

“I can check you in now, do you have any luggage?”

“No thank you just my briefcase and this bag.”

She hit a button and I heard a printer produce my boarding pass which she handed to me.

“Thank you, Sir, for choosing Delta, you can walk straight through priority departures, the flight will open for boarding in ten to twenty minutes from now .Have a pleasant flight to Los Angeles!”

Some flights were indeed getting delayed. Fortunately ours wasn't. Moments later I was on the plane. I picked up my

phone, expecting

a stream of messages from Natasha, but there were none. I just had the lovely Melissa on my mind. There wasn’t much I could do about that, my imagination started playing like one of those old VCRs with a stop button which wouldn't respond. There was one message, a text from Russell: “Kill it tomorrow, we need those floors.”

I placed myself in seat 3A and looked out of the window. A little icy rain had just started to fall, scattering a few drops on the airplane window.

“Folks this is your captain, we are number three for take-off. LA today had a sunny 85 degrees at noon and the weather will be the same tomorrow”.

I could really do with the warm weather, I wish I had found something to do in a warmer place like LA. Originally from Boston, with two sisters and a brother and a normal upbringing, I had longed to escape the cold winters. Originally I had wanted to be a lawyer but ended up selling houses as a realtor. As we raced down the runway I looked at the printouts from Peter and Russell. The building was a new, impressive 45 stories high rise on the southern side of Hollywood Boulevard which would be taller than the nearby CNN building. Stunning views with Hollywood sign and the Hollywood hills north, downtown LA to the south-east and Santa Monica and Malibu to the west. The actual buyer was the Central-Eastern mutual pension fund who was using us as brokers. We would buy the office space with their money as an investment and sell it within 2 years at a profit. All the newly built office space has been selling well, especially in this booming economy. The Ivar building consortium sold the space at lower prices to fund the building. The first buyers who could front the money would gain. This was one of many projects I had done for several deals just this month but mostly in or around New York City and a few in Chicago, Miami. Apart from the corporate realty business the company also did business with racecourses and online shopping. I never saw the actual checks and money, Simon and Russell handled most of that along with Peter, the head of finance. Once I got the deed to a property I would sign it with a lawyer and get it back to the office where it was destined to go to the client who had put up the money. We made the money through commission of the purchase price. Business was good. The impressive office in Manhattan cost a fortune, but it helped establish us as serious players. Nice men in suits who could do good deals.

It was usually worth the pain of working with, as I would call them sleaze balls like Simon and Russell. I sometimes thought of quitting, but the pay and perks were good, which was needed as I was burning money living in that house with a high mortgage and constantly buying stuff to put in it. Russell actually had a house in the next town up Long Island, Moss Hill. He was impressed when he found out I was moving to the house. Both Simon and Russell expected that all their traders should be seen living the good life, being part of the high lifers of Wall Street. I never got into flashy cars but I had a flashy (very) expensive girlfriend to say the least. My first trip to LA on business was one of my first jobs when I joined Smedley & Nixon-Reading asset management. I was negotiating the purchase of a small loss making a TV shopping channel called “First home sales television.” The channel started in the fall of 1993 running out of a couple of floors on Sunset Boulevard in East Hollywood. Sounds glamorous, though it was in a rather rundown warehouse. The station started as one of a number of competitors to QVC but focused on clothing and luggage. The channel closed down in 2007 but continued on the Internet. What the company wanted with this enterprise puzzled me, but Simon and Russell insisted on keeping it going and then they kept it tightly under control and that any financial information was off limits to everyone else in the company. I had a look at the website and oddly they accepted mail-in cash payments even though you aren't supposed to send cash in the mail.

My phone vibrated. Wi-Fi in the sky, no place to be left alone! It was Natasha. Finally! She must have missed me. “Darling as you are in LA I need you to go to Prada in Beverly Hills and pick up a pair of shoes and a scarf I've just ordered. They will match my bag, Thanks.” My reply was, “I'm sure they deliver or I can get it back in New York.” “Yes but I don't like waiting for delivery and you need to bring me back something. By the way, I will be out of pomegranate juice in 3 days so can you buy some at Trader Joes and buy some loaves of bread to cushion the juice bottles as you have to check it in the hold. And the juice must be well shielded from my Prada bag!” Normal messages would be to bring back something actually from California, but she demands more expensive European stuff. To always buy pomegranate juice whenever I'll be on my way home whether it is coming home from the office or all the way from LA that is something I am used to and don't mind as she has been totally hooked on pomegranate juice this year. Last year it was banana flavored milk. Pomegranate juice is much healthier than banana flavored milk though. Time to get some shut eyes, I thought. I noticed the guy in the seat across from me was crying.

Tall very handsome and nice slim and worked out body wearing a light blue long-sleeved shirt over a tight white t-shirt, deep blue jeans, brown shoes, expensive gold watch. Some tears had already started making raindrops like imprints on an otherwise perfectly ironed and starched shirt.

Nice as I am, I decided to ask him what was wrong. Turns out the guy, Steven, was a male model from LA who had been in New York for some photo work when he had seen on a hidden web-cam that the boyfriend back at their LA apartment was in bed causing an indiscretion. He showed me the camera app in which he had saved stills, some quite explicit of his partner in bed with not one but two other guys. The images were very clear and the camera mounted to show the whole bed. Intrigued, I asked him how he went about installing the camera. He had himself after he had a gut feeling that something wasn't right and a long trip away would probably be the time he would be cheated on. I was really impressed and I wanted to congratulate him on his ingenuity. I told him that I bet he wouldn't ask you to buy $5100 handbags from Prada.

Steven told me no, but Prada bags were one of the advertising billboards and magazine model shots he had just done in New York. I pulled out the Prada bag from the Duane Reade bag from the overhead compartment and showed it to him.

The big blond guy wiped his tears and was impressed and even laughed a little. It was one of the bags they had had on the photo shoot. He smiled and said “The French laced edition. It is exceptional! I'd live in one if I could!” It eased the conversation. Steven had already messaged the stills from the web-camera and his partner said he would be out of their apartment by the time the plane landed. This is the power of strong evidence! It was brutally efficient.

I must admit I have that gut feeling too. I asked Steve for more details where he bought his camera set-up. Best-buy in West Hollywood. He paid the Tech-squad to install everything. I felt bad for even thinking about setting this up at home. Steven told me he felt bad too, but when the gut feeling won't go away this helps. Either the feeling is wrong and you feel a bit silly for a short time or the gut-feeling is right and no more being a fool.

Steven handed me his card, which sported a white with a background with a gold frame, “Steven Ballard. Professional model“ and a shirtless color photo of him. “Call me, my bed will have space!”

I smiled and before I could say I'm flattered but not gay he said “if you're straight you could just keep me company, the nights can get cold in LA this time of the year and there is no heating.” I put the card in my wallet. He asked me what I was doing in LA, so I told him about the Ivar office project. “You will see me there, literally. I am spread out on a giant billboard on the building next to the Sky scraper.”

Los Angeles

The flight descended into the desert night and I saw palm trees and long streets heading east to west. On-time and just before midnight we landed. I stepped out of the terminal and was met with the sweet ocean air of the Pacific. I realized I hadn't booked a hotel and I remember Steven and his promise of a bed and how in an unfamiliar way it would feel like a triumph to be in a Prada-model's bed. But the hotel would be just fine. Steven got in a cab too and told the driver to just take me to a hotel downtown. The driver had a number of suggestions as we pulled into Main street having just passed by Union Station. I saw a sign saying HOTEL by a tall building, probably around 100 years old. The driver told me it was a budget hotel. I was really tired and when I asked him if it was clean and he said that it was I told him to stop the car. Fortunately there was vacant rooms available. I almost fell asleep at reception, fortunately the wait wasn't long. Small rooms, but quiet and modern. A flat-screen TV was attached to the wall across the bed. I turned it on.

Late night talk show host James

Commen

was on, so it

was late

. He was in full swing, a British accent and everything. Against

the usual backdrop

of the Hollywood hills at sunset this red-haired, youngish somewhat ample Brit had a smirk on his face as he ran through his 'James

Commen

top 10 non conventional ways of using something.'

“Ten non conventional ways of using a Hersey bar:

Measurer of temperature, if it melts before you reach the car – it is too hot out.

Measurer

of length – I am 12 Hersey bars tall 3. House of Hersey cards – earthquake detector

Put 100 of them in a briefcase and walk around town, to feel unique.
Sock straightener
Melted – as face cleansing mask
Making a fake phone call..”

Hmm! This is not that funny I told myself I was just getting hungry for stuff I shouldn't eat.

I dialed on the remote to see what else was on. PBS, “Seventeenth-century London, When the River Thames smelled over”, MTV Jersey Shore; “Snookie's hen party volume three”, Discovery Channel, “The men who

only ate

nuts and peaches for a year.”

Enough TV! Just stuff I am not remotely interested in. About to fall asleep, I pressed the off button. The room was totally dark. I closed my eyes and for a moment thought back at the day and the people I met. This was something I started doing each night, thinking and trying and remembering every face I had seen. I didn't actually see Natasha when she left for her 6am yoga class, I recall some of the people on the Long Island Railroad, then the subway. The receptionist in the lobby, Peter, Russell, Sam and Simon. The Prada guy, the people on the subway, the lovely Melissa at Delta. Steven, the cab driver, the hotel checkin lady at the Main Street Inn.

I had a really funky, intense dream that night. In my dream, I woke up with everything shaking. The room was filled with a strong red light. I told myself I was in LA and the earthquake! I had to get out! I am in an old building on the 10th floor. I reached for the door to get out, the building was shaking violently but there was Natasha in a big red dress looking like Elvira princess of darkness standing with hands on the door-frames. She was totally blocking my exit. It was hard to keep my balance due to the shaking, but she was standing perfectly tall. On the floor were 10 Prada bags, which she pointed to.

“Not so fast, I find you in a cheap hotel is bad enough, but you only got me the 10 Prada bags, and they are not even this year's edition! George, what were you thinking? Where is my Lamborghini to put all the shoes and jewelry you were supposed to get me? I am fed up with our regular car! I'm fed up with finding you in cheap places. You're cheap! You need to buy me more. More! As she pushed me onto the bed, there was Steven! He got out of bed. The building was still shaking. This is one of those times when you kind of know you're in a dream, but you're still living it as if it is real. Steven luckily was wearing underwear, tight white and black Prada briefs (do they even make those?) Ripped body, looking perfect in every way. He turned to a bemused Natasha and said: “It's OK I am wearing Prada in bed, I slept with your boyfriend, so he must I have good taste.” Natasha gave a nod that showed satisfaction. She said “OK then, that's approved” and walked out.

I woke up. There was just a little street-light coming in. No Prada bags, no Natasha or Steven and no earthquakes. I slept until I was awakened by the sun. I took the elevator downstairs for breakfast. I overheard a couple sitting near me talking about them feeling an earthquake this morning. I checked the news on my phone. Sure enough, a smaller type of quake measuring 2.9, centered around the intersection of Lake Shore Avenue and Ewing Street this morning.

After breakfast, I decided to get a cab to the Ivar Towers in Hollywood. Then, as I walked a few blocks to find a stationary cab, I noticed a metro sign: “LA metro”. I wondered where it would take me. I was intrigued. I went down an escalator on 7th Street, stopped by a system map where I saw that there are in-fact 3 stops in Hollywood. The Ivar Towers complex is planned near the Hollywood & Vine station. 12 minutes on the train, I walked up the stairs right onto Hollywood Boulevard. Such a nice day here. The air felt slightly crisp, very bright sunshine against a very blue sky. I walked up the star-studded sidewalk and there was a big billboard near the Capitol Records building showing an artist's impression of the two high-rise buildings. Nearby is another billboard for Prada underwear, the Prada guy, Steven, spread out wearing only white briefs against a tropical beach background. The sales office was located on the 10th floor of the Capitol Records building, which with its iconic round shape is hard to miss. I got in checking my watch which say 10.44 just enough time to fill out some forms.

The bidding was in an auditorium. Food was provided; sandwiches, tea coffee and champagne. It was fairly busy with at least 80 people in total. I got 10 floors but not under 30 in fact at 30 million exactly per floor.

I immediately called Russell, who was pleased I got it and asked me to wait for the paperwork and FedEx it straight to a legal firm, also in New York.

This reminded me of something which I always found this a bit odd. Why the obsession with always using couriers rather than trusting their employees to deliver the paperwork, especially since I was due back in New York the day after tomorrow? I tried to argue this time, but he wouldn't have it. FedEx did it immediately. The shipment was done. I went over to Starbucks near the metro station and a few cappuccinos and a carrot cake Moments later I got a call from Russell's secretary that they had completed the bank transfer of $300 million, which we had to wait for from the pension fund company, and the paperwork was ready for me to sign for and pick up. Russell told me to get a cab to the nearest FedEx agent, which is the Money-center at Cahuenga and Hollywood boulevards behind the CVS. I saw it was just a couple two blocks from Capital Records, so I walked it. Across the road toward Cahuenga Boulevard, I noticed a giant beautiful Jacaranda tree in full purple bloom. I was in the best mood I had been in for weeks, maybe months.

This left me with the rest of the day off. I walked back to the Metro. The day looked so beautiful. I wanted to do something. I looked up at the Hollywood sign and the beautiful hills with lavish houses tucked in. On closer inspection, they were not little houses but mansions.

I got my phone out and called Steven, the guy from the plane. He suggested showing me around town. He would pick me up in half an hour after he finished a car commercial down at Paramount Pictures, not far from here.

I hung around for some pizza at a nearby pizza place.

Steven picked me up in his blue American made 4x4. He was happy as he told me he had made peace with his boyfriend, who was flying back tomorrow after having left the drama to see friends in Palm Springs. Made peace as in broken up amicably, Steven said. It wasn't just the cheating, he said, a lot of people have committed indiscretions, including himself. This was more of a final hit.

I got a call from head-office asking about the paperwork. I replied that I would courier it the moment I got it in my hand.

I liked the space in his truck, it was very spacious. He told me it was over 20 years old, but he had always looked after it well. He got the idea for it after a 6-month relationship back in the early 2000s when he was just 18. “Your first love?” I asked him. “Yeah, he was.” I saw how Steven got a sad, worried face as he turned the steering wheel left, and we were heading into small, very bending roads and upward. I said

“I

apologize if I was probing.

”

Steven told me it was all right. First love is the hardest. He opened the glove compartment and told me to take his wallet and look in the folder behind the credit cards. There was a photo of a tall, beautiful dark black guy in tight blue jeans and a tight blue t-shirt with capital letters, “US MARINES,” with his chest muscles protruding through. Darius. “When he walks down the street,” Steven said and I saw tears forming in his eyes, “girls and guys alike stop and turn, he is the most beautiful guy you could see in a day. “ Although teary eyes, Steven didn't mind talking about him as we pulled into

a driveway

and stopped.

He met him, the guy, Darius, the love of his life in West Hollywood. Darius, about twice Steven's age, though looking about the same age as him. Darius baby-faced looks swept Steven away as they got talking by an ATM on a night out. Darius had just changed jobs as a mailman and moved to the Valley. They would go for long outdoor trips, to the mountains, to the desert. “Such good times I can't forget.” Said Steven as more tears formed in his eyes. He told me he never forgot how Darius said he had seen him from across the bar and noticed his blond hair and crystal blue eyes.

I had to ask him what happened. Steven told me that being young and foolish he had slept with another model after a photo shoot in Las Vegas. He felt guilty about it, confessed to Darius, who forgave him but it never really got the same. It made matters worse with Steven repaying the same again, in-fact 5 more times.

“Strange when you love someone so much, the sex and attraction are so good and I still cheated.”

They remained friends and would sometimes hang out. Darius seemed to suffer from depression, and one day he stopped answering his phone or front door, though his name was still on the reception intercom. I asked: “So you don't know if he still lives there?”

“I don't know if he has moved or maybe he is still there.”I asked him if it was far from here. Steven told me maybe we could drive by later, but for now, he was taking me to the Hollywood sign. The last mile of roads leading up to the sign was not open for traffic, so we walked. It was a fair bit cooler up here. There were some other people walking up to the sign too, and we smiled at them, and they smiled back and said hello. Once upon the mountain, we could see the other side across the Valley and beyond. I saw the NBC Universal complex and not far from it the Warner Bros studios, and down to a set of straight grid layout streets. Steven pointed to that part and told me it is North Hollywood. I took some photos for my Instagram. One with me and Steven. I thought it would get Natasha's attention. Not yet. I took another last photo and sent it by WhatsApp to her. We walked back down the mountain. I kept checking my phone if the tick boxes,

the receive

notifications on WhatsApp, had changed to blue “read” but they were still gray. The signal kept going in and out. Steven noticed I was nervous.

I told him I just wanted to see if my girlfriend had seen my photo.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked. I told him about Natasha. How we met, how she is very demanding, how she always wants stuff and that I sometimes wonder if she really loves me. Talking is good. I found the walk down very therapeutic. I also had to admit that I hadn't talked to anyone about my thoughts about Natasha and me. Steven told me she sounds like a spoiled brat. I showed him a photo from my phone of Natasha and me at the party where we met. He admitted she is very pretty. Maybe she would adjust after after a few more

years

, she had come from Russia straight into the high jet set in Manhattan. That was Steven's theory. I know her though. She is a bit spoiled but I think it is more habitual and I hope something will jolt her into place. I showed Steven a video I have in my phone of Natasha working in a clothes factory at age 16. She did that a year between studies to make some money for the family and herself. We got back into the car. The sun was setting fast behind the mountains. Steven was already a friend, I could feel it. He suggested we should go to the beach first for a quick stop, I should see as much of the LA area as possible. Fortunately there was not much traffic but to be sure he took the Santa Monica freeway and we were there in 25 minutes. It was a nice beautiful day at the beach with a cool breeze blowing in from the Ocean. He encouraged me to dip my feet in the Ocean. “You must at least have touched the Pacific Ocean!” he said. I took off my shoes and felt the warm sand. The water was rather cold however. After a few minutes it was time to head back. I was getting hungry and Steven was too. He suggested going to Malibu Seafood in nearby Malibu, a lovely restaurant with a large semi-outdoor area facing the beach just along the Pacific Coast Highway. I had Fish and Chips with a side salad. The food tasted so nice, enhanced by the freshness of the nearby Ocean. I didn't want to go but it was time to head back. We drove past Hollywood again and got to West Hollywood by 10 pm. We went down to Santa Monica Boulevard, the main artery of West Hollywood. The whole place is definitely a party town. Bars and nightclubs are mixed with outdoor dining restaurants. Up above the colorful streets of West Hollywood, in the hills, pretty, expensive houses with pools and beautiful trees. Some of the sidewalks are rainbow colored. Steven drove quite fast as if he was in a hurry. Once we headed into Hollywood he told me why;

He had two tickets to an afternoon taping of The Adina Show in Burbank. He didn't want to go alone. He had planned to go with his boyfriend but that was not an option now. I told him I had never been to a television show and it would be fun. We got into his car, he had lowered the roof so we felt the sun and the air. It was a nice drive up Cahuenga

Boulevard

in Hollywood and then we made a right turn to get to the studio.

Steven knew one of the producers so was able to get us back stage passes and we could wait in one of the spare green rooms. We got through security parked and were shown to the green rooms and to our joy the staff had placed fruit and wine in our room '

with the compliments

of the Adina staff. I tucked into some pineapple and ice cream and had gone half way through when an assistant told us it was time to take out seats in the front row so I gulped up the remaining dessert on my plate and we took out seats. The same production assistant came on stage and told us how the show would work, there were applause signs in the ceiling and when they lit it would be appropriate and suggested to clap and cheer.

On this show the guests would be President G.W. Bush and Ne-Yo. Adina then ran out and greeted us all and she cracked a few jokes. Both guests have been

on the

show before. First out was President Bush. The 'Taping' signs in the ceiling lit up. President Bush was wearing a red cardigan and had brought with him a painting of Adina he had made. The normally bubbly Adina sat down and was taken aback by the gesture. She then produced another joke: "You got me to a tear here and, well, make one of

my adorable cat too and you will need to bring a box of Kleenex, this is just beautiful thank you so much!" It was a new experience seeing people in real life and

up so close

for the first time and not just on the television. She then played 'guess that price' and the President got all the prices right.

Ne-Yo came on and talked about a new album. He also performed a song from the album. He was really good. For a few moments I forgot all my stresses and felt I was in a special zone. I didn't want this show taping to end. But it did sooner

than I had hoped.

I was hoping to catch a selfie with Adina and show it to Daniel. He would be happy and so wished he had been here. But she had to rush home for an anniversary dinner. Steven got chatting to Ne-Yo outside the green room. He is a huge fan. President Bush stopped by too. I was shy but eventually I stepped up and got a selfie with myself, the President and Ne-Yo and another with all of us plus Steven. I was so happy.

He suggested a nice place: the NoHo diner in North Hollywood on Magnolia boulevard. "They have the best burgers" Steven said and started describing them. Now I was absolutely starving! The food from the kitchen smelled so nice and we saw the guests at the table

to us also getting mouth watering burgers, fries and crispy salads.

It was dark now. I felt I made a new friend. We had our burgers, onion rings, salads and grapefruit juice.

After all that food I was getting a little sleepy. Steven suggested on my last night in LA I should see West Hollywood. We drove back down to Hollywood and took Sunset

Boulevard

westwards, then south on San Vicente to party town.

Most of the clubs were colorful gay clubs, Rage, Revolver and The Abbey. Near the Abbey the restaurant and bar SUR (Sexy Unique Restaurant) which is owned and managed by the famous, beautiful and glamorous British Hollywood celebrity, Lisa Vanderpump.

Natasha was very much into the TV series 'Real

Housewives

of Beverly Hills' which was one of the few TV programs we would watch together often in bed. I asked if we could step into 'Sur' for a drink. There was a lovely patio area with virgin trees and nice pink, blue and white mood lighting. We got a table and had a couple of Screwdrivers

and champagne

. I took out my phone and made a WhatsApp call to Natasha. Fortunately she picked it up. "It is 1am George but I had a bad dream so it is OK, where are you." I videoed around and I heard a scream followed by "Point the camera back, oh that's the husband, Ken and their little dog." I saw the husband a few tables away. I told her I knew she would be happy to get a video call from here. She thanked me and said she could now have nice dreams. We had a nice call for a change.

It was getting late. I though, I w

ill

miss this place. It was such a nice evening, everything looked so pretty. From the colorful lights coming from the clubs and shops to the distant lights from the houses up on the mountain sides above. We walked back to Steven's car. He was getting really sleepy and said 'Do you mind crashing at my place and I'll take you back to the hotel tomorrow morning, I have a spare room and bed." I thought: okay.

The drive was very short, five minutes westwards into Beverly hills and a nice apartment building. The sprinklers were on, watering the grass in front of the building with large Yucca trees gracing the lower facade.

We went inside, the apartment was really nice and I thought Natasha would have loved this. Steven was so tired he just showed me to the room, got some clean sheets out and made my bed, gave me a spare toothbrush and a towel then excused himself to go to sleep. I went to sleep almost immediately myself.

I was woken up by the sun tickling my face. I walked into the kitchen where Steven greeted my good morning. He was heating croissants and brewing coffee.

My phone buzzed with a call. It was Natasha. “George, how are you? I want you to do something for me.” Her voice sounded a bit cold. “Can you pick up the shoes and scarf for me at Prada in Beverly Hills.” “Yeah okay, I'm here actually, it is such a nice sunny day wish you were here.” “Whatever George, just get my scarf, bye. ”Hmmm she must have woken up on the wrong side this morning!” My phone buzzed again, it was Daniel. Daniel was on the subway and his call was cutting in and out.

It was hard to hear what he was saying: “Get

as much money

as can....bank. Now! Hurry! They will freeze ...we.. .under investigation!”

Steven was half dressed and asked if I needed a ride anywhere so I told him I had to

go to

my bank as soon as possible. As we were finishing the breakfast Daniel called again. “Have you gotten your money?”

Steven was getting ready as he was late for an appointment with a modeling agency. There was another guy in the bedroom with him. Some guy he had given his number to at the Revolver. He let himself out. It was a nice another sunny and crisp morning. It didn't take long to drive along Sunset Boulevard until we got to a Bank of America in Hollywood. I got out of the car and walked into the branch hoping that everything was still OK with my account. I wondered how I could carry a lot of cash but then I remembered the Prada bag. It would have to do. The teller looked at the withdrawal slip. She hardly blinked, tapped away on her keyboard, then I saw the amount show up on the keypad display and she asked me to punch my debit card pin and then sign. “Okay that's withdrawn now from your account so I'd better go and get you your cash, I

will be back momentarily.

” I sensed a sigh of relief and texted Daniel “At Bank, money withdrawn OK,” The 130,000 dollars I was withdrawing was almost all of what I had in my savings account. She took my ID. and walked away. A few moments later she got back with a large white paper bag and a counter machine. We ran through the money which was all in one hundred dollar bills. She put the money inside a plastic bag, tied it and placed it inside the paper bag and punched two paper-staples through it to make it more secure. 1300 bills later I walked off. She didn't ask any questions. I suppose here in Hollywood this might be a regular occurrence.

I started

waiting

for the WALK sign to cross the street. The sun was in my eyes so I had a hard time seeing what was going on.

I looked down on the withdrawal slip again I had in my hand, it looked okay so about $28000 left.

I looked up again and to my horror I saw this black convertible heading straight at me. The WALK sign was still on but people here can turn against red. I knew he was going to hit me. I had a second to react. I heard the car tires screeching as the driver hit the

brakes

but it was too late, He was going to hit me! It was happening in slow motion. I thought I may die now! I didn't know why at the time but I jumped up and when he hit me I landed on the bonnet of the low profile car. I didn't feel much pain and amazingly didn't

lose

my balance but stood up.

The driver rushed out of his car totally shocked and almost yelling at me.

“I didn't see you man, The sun was in my face and I just didn't see you are you okay, are you okay? You need to go to a hospital!”

I felt fine. So I said “Nah thats okay just watch where you are going

.'' I

saw the paper bag with money which had landed in his back seat and intact without anything falling out. I pointed to it and he hurriedly handed it to me and drove off”

I know I should go to have myself checked over as with any impact there could be internal injuries not immediately felt.

I now saw Steven running towards me asked if I was okay and that I was shaking. “you were so so lucky! Most people end up with severe injuries or worse! I can't believe what I just

saw, you

flew up a fair bit!” I didn't have time to think about what could have happened so I just smiled at him.

We did a quick check-over of me. My shirt was actually torn by the left arm and underneath was a wound with a little blood coming out of it. Same thing right under my left ankle which had smashed into the front of the hood. I also had marks on both trousers around the knee area. I was a bit scared to find out what was underneath. More bruising.. Compared to what could have been though I felt fine.

He drove me back towards downtown though first a detour to stop by Prada in Beverly Hills where Natasha's bag and a scarf was ready for collection. I got in, and they had it indeed, just the small matter of putting $1400 on my Visa credit card. He then drove me downtown but had to rush back to Hollywood for another commercial shoot at Paramount. He hugged me goodbye as I was leaving tonight. I promised to come back soon. The flight was at 5.25 pm. It was now 2.45pm. I sure didn't want to lose this bag. I walked into Macy's nearby and bought a nice looking sturdy duffel bag for $55. Oddly, I wasn't able to pay with any of my cards. The till said, “Declined.” I had a $100 bill in my wallet. I didn't want to have to reach for the big stash. I walked a few blocks back to the hotel on Main Street, got to my room, placed the cash and the few pieces of extra clothes I had bought into the Prada bag.

No cabs around. I was too impatient to call one or get an Uber so I ran back to the Metro and got the train the few stops to Union Station. Up the escalator, I followed the signs for the Lax FlyAway bus. I got to the cashier and handed over my Visa card for the $9 fare. “Sir your card is declined.” I handed over my debit card. Also, declined. My phone buzzed. No time to answer. The bus would leave in five minutes and there was a short line behind me. Corporate Amex. All declined. Weird. I got out a $10 bill from my wallet to pay my ticket. My phone rang again. I rushed to the bus

the phone call would have to wait. I felt my shirt sleeves picking up some drops of sweat and I wiped my forehead. Once on the bus which was now making its way out onto the freeway, I checked the phone. 24 missed calls, 8 new WhatsApp messages threads, 5 emails. What was going on? I checked WhatsApp. First, there was a message from Daniel “Really bad things are going down, call me.” His voice was clear now. He said they had arrested half the staff, including the bosses. There was a warrant for Natasha's arrest also but not sure how that was connected. Daniel had managed to get $11,000 out from his bank account before it was frozen. I was happy he had warned me but now what?

He told me someone had taken aim shot at him from a building as he left his apartment this morning but NYPD has instructions to tell him not to leave town. He told me he was in a cab on the way to JFK to get onto any flight out of the country. I walked over to an ATM inside the terminal. It not only said my card had been declined, but it retained it. Part of me thought about just leaving the country. Mexico came to mind. In thinking about where to go, I eventually stepped aboard the American Airlines flight to New York, JFK. I hadn't done anything wrong. I thought that I should just go back home and clear things out. I could also put the cash back in the bank. The plane was taxiing, I felt my phone vibrate. It was a text from Daniel: “I've boarded a plane to Budapest, Hungary. I think someone is trying to kill me and if they are, you could also be a target. They released Simon and Richard after the police believed their story, that we committed the fraud. ”My heart sank. New York City is the last place I should be flying to. And what was worse was that Simon and Russell surely knew that I was on this flight. I unbuckled my belt. The flight steward unfastened his belt in the nearby jump seat, rushed over to me and told me to get back into my seat; we were on the runway and a moment away from take-off. I told him I needed to get off. But it was too late. I buckled back up as the flight attendant returned to his jump seat. We accelerated down one of the runways and

headed out over Pacific ocean briefly before making a turn by Santa Catalina island and heading back eastwards

I had a brandy and settled for relaxing for a bit. Whatever was to come would come. The next five

and a half

hours would be serene I decided. I couldn't help but

thinking

what was going on in New York. So I decided to turn on my phone for just a moment. I connected to the in-flight WI-fi.

Three new messages. All from Daniel. “Go to Hungary or Europe.” “Don't stick around.” “Let me know when you are out of the country.”

That was pretty to the point. I decided I needed to follow his advice. I didn't know where to go though. I drifted off

to sleep

By the time I woke up most of the flight had passed. I had missed the business class complimentary dinner. It was time to land..

On my way through the concourse onto baggage claim I stopped by NY1 news which ran the story. There was Simon Smedley at

an NYPD

press conference holding up a bunch of documents I had never seen before in my life and with what looked like my signature. How he faked it I don't know. I felt sick.

World traveler

As I got out of the security zone and onto baggage claim two chunky white men in their late 30s with about a week's unshaven faces walked up to me. They looked like drug dealers. One of them whispered to me “George, it is game over” and said I have to come with them and that they both had guns. I froze and thought for a few seconds if I could do anything. My heart was beating fast. I wanted to shout for help but I realized these guys meant business and the bullet a few inches from me inside the loaded gun would get to me before any help could. The man who had whispered to me pointed at the exit and three more guys similar build and looks standing there. I was thinking this may not be in the movies where they will take me away and somehow there will be a magical escape. They might just kill me anyway I thought. I was near the exit of the baggage carousel belt where the unclaimed baggage goes back into the loading bay. I saw suitcase coming. I told the guy I needed my bag there was cash in it. A lie as the cash was in the bag I was carrying already. I grabbed a metal studded bag which looked quite light and slammed it into the guy and pushed him to the floor. I managed to run off. I jumped up on the moving conveyor and dived into the opening, into the loading bay. A bewildered worked who had been busy loading bags looked at me. I saw some stairs leading to a door. I asked him if it as open. He said it was. I ran for it. I instinctively zigzagged and ran with my head held low for a few moments. I rightly did so. I heard shots. I got to the door when a shot graced by left thumb, then another under my right arm. I felt an electric pain but didn't look, instead I closed the door behind me. I was back out on the departures area. I ran out towards the ticket desk. No trace of the man who had followed me and fired a shot in the parking lot then more shots. I felt an immense pain in under my right arm like being stung by a hundred very angry wasps. I was sweating but it felt much more than just sweat under my right arm. I placed my hand to feel what was going on. My hand returned covered in my blood. Lots of it. The blood was pouring. I was

at a real

risk of bleeding to death! I checked my shirt was turn just under my armpit. I saw bits of my skin off. It appeared the bullet hand entered the back part of my armpit area and exited from my lower shoulder front where it was really bleeding. I looked for anything to wrap around it. Nothing in sight. I remembered the scarf from Prada. I fished for it

and took

my handkerchief placed right on the wound then wrapped the scarf around my armpit to hold the handkerchief in firm place against the bleeding wound. It actually made a good seal seal. The bleeding stopped.

Now, what do I do? I saw a familiar face, the lovely Melissa was at the Delta counter again. There was one other ticketing agent free though Melissa had already noticed me. “Hello again sir, where are you off to tonight?” “I need to go to um-mm, Europe!” I was doing my best to hide the pain from the wound.

Melissa looked bemused and intrigued. “Anywhere in Europe in particular?” I had no idea, so I didn't say a word “Okay We have an 11 pm to Brussels that gets you there for noon local time.”

“Perfect.” Melissa typed away on her keyboard.

“Round trip? Business Class?”

“Yes please”.

“That comes to... 3530 dollars exactly. When do you plan to return or should I just set open?” I asked for an open ticket and fished out 100-dollar bills, 35 of them then a twenty and a ten.

“Credit card problem, I need to pay in cash.”

“No problem!” and a smile from Melissa who took the cash into the office. Clearly cash transactions are so rare today that the actual money would go into a safe or something. “Have a nice flight and hope to see you again.”

The nice exchange at the ticket counter and the excitement I now had a ticket to some at least temporary freedom made me forget to see if any of the hit-men were after me. The airport was fairly quiet at this time. I saw the large American stars and stripes hanging from the ceiling near security control. I felt sad and happy at the same time. I was leaving my home country for no fault of my own. But happily I was working towards a way out. This moment right here is one of those where you have to go beyond the ordinary in order, against the manual so to speak to survive. The ordinary would be to turn myself over to the FBI, and surely the wheels of justice would eventually free me. The other variables, notably the mafia, would see me dead long before the wheels had already done their first turn. I got a seat near the gate, 35. I looked out and didn't see a Delta jet, instead a large Airbus from Brussels Airlines. Code-share with Delta. I started thinking for a moment, what if I should go back and just tell the FBI that the mafia was after me. How injured was I? I should really get to a hospital. But how soon would the mafia find and finishing me off? Then off to jail. How long would I then need to stay in jail for? No, I would die. The Mafia has a contract on me, and especially in jail life and death can be bought with money more easily than on the outside. Then I started thinking that the FBI must have protected cells. My mind went back and forth. One moment I was about to rise to head for the exit. Next I felt the gravity of the seat. Then a voice came on a speaker:

“Brussels airlines to Brussels Zaventem is now ready for priority boarding.”

I got up and walked straight for the gate attendant and nearly didn't stop but continued. The pre-flight champagne was served. I could think it over on the flight I told myself. I was thinking that if handing myself over to the FBI was the best idea, then I could just take the next available plane back to New York. But there was to be no thinking. After take off I thought to watch a movie. An elderly man sitting across from my seat pointed dried blood on my jacket arm and the visible hole. He I was alright. I told him “well I was shot believe it or not, the wound is held together with a hankie and a very expensive scarf. The man is a brain surgeon returning from a seminar, in New York city, on new HDAC inhibitors in the role of preoperative treatment of malignant brain tumors. He said I should get it disinfected and cleaned out or there was a high probability a serious infection would develop. He said he could do it for me, it would take a few moments. He called a flight attendant and told him what was going on. The attendant returned with a surgical kit. I took off my shirt. Fortunately there weren't any other passengers in the nearby seats and the curtain to economy was shut. He looked at the small bottle of disinfectant and asked for some brandy or anything with a high alcohol content and a bottle carbonated water and some small towels. The attendant came back with a bottle of Irish Whiskey which was 77% alcoholic content and a plastic bottle of carbonated water as well as some some napkins of the hot napkins-before-take-off type. The doctor carefully removed the Prada scarf and my handkerchief. The Prada scarf had some blood on it. And the handkerchief was soaked. He warned me that next it would probably hurt but it wouldn't be for long. He poured some of the carbonated water onto the wound. It sure burned. Next, he carefully cleaned off the wound. He never asked me who had shot me or why. I guess he was one of those doctors who didn't care too much to ask questions but just focused on the healing. Next he placed my hand on a couple of napkins and poured some Whiskey all over the area. He got wound dressing from the surgical kit and

wound the dressing

like cable on a spool around my thumb and over part of my hand. The attendant help him tidy up and we were done. “You have a typical smaller entry wound and a larger flesh exit wound. You are lucky that the bullet exited and it didn't damage any arteries or organs. I advise you seek up a hospital when you arrive, this will do for now.” He said. I didn't worry about the wound much or anything I was soon sound asleep and slept through dinner and woke up as we descended through the clouds above Brussels. The doctor was busy finishing breakfast. He saw that I had woken up and asked me how I felt. I felt fine. My and was stinging a bit from the wound but much less than before. I thank him again, grabbed the money bag and went towards immigration. Just past customs I saw some shops and a show repair stand. I walked up and asked the man if he could fix my suit so it at least didn't look like a billboard for gunshots. He

had a needle

and thread and a patch which he sewed on from the inside. Good job. I forgot to look out for the mafia but surely they wouldn't know I was here.

I remembered a story I had read in The Daily News I found on the subway about this guy who the mafia had chased all around Brazil and all the way to Argentina where he had been hiding out, and they got him. The immigration officer said nothing and just stamped my passport and made a gesture for the next in line. I got a cab and asked the driver to drive me to a Sheraton downtown. The meter started and 35 Euros later out of habit, I handed him one of my credit cards. I saw my card going into the terminal and then I remember that it would most likely be declined. But I let him run it through the machine just to see if by some kind gesture the authorities back home had lifted the sanctions on me.

“Je suis désolé monsieur, votre carte de crédit a été refusée.”

I handed him four $20 bills and asked if that would be OIK. The man looked at the bills and said OK.

As I was about to get out of the

taxi, I

noticed the same car, a silver Audi which had just entered behind us at the airport was just behind us. I got back in and said to the driver: “For another $100 could you pick me up downstairs from the parking garage in 5 minutes.

“Bien sur, no Problem, merci.” I got out of the taxi and walked to the swing door entrance of the Sheraton. I saw in the partial reflection of the glass 2 men coming out of the silver Audi, not far behind me. I hurried to the front desk and asked how to get to the parking garage. “Down the stairs near the lavatories, sir.” I pretended to go into the restroom. The men watched me. A bellboy came with a large cart. Then, as he passed I was hoping my dash down the stairs would be blocked by the bags on the bellboy's trolley. “Sortie Parking” said a sign 2 flights down. Now to find the cab and hoping he would still want his $100. After some frantic running back and forth I saw the cab, near the exit. I jumped in and I handed the man more dollar bills and asked him to drive to a cheap hotel near the airport. I looked anxiously behind for any cars following. Fortunately, none. The driver pulled up by Ibis Budget Aeroport with a big electronic sign which said “59 EUR.” I gave the driver a good tip. He smiled and was clearly happy.

”Voici. Ma carte si vous avez besoin d'un

chauffeur

encore.” The hotel seems like a decent budget hotel, clean, modern and chic.

“A room please one night and can I pay in dollars cash?” The lady took out her calculator and asked me for $75. I got a magnetic key card and opened the door to a rather basic but very clean room on the 5th floor overlooking the airport parking. The room had a bunk-bed, a window that could only be opened a couple inches, a small shower and a small wall mounted TV. I desperately needed a shower. Over two days since my last shower in LA and with despite dowsing using a lot of deo spray the caveman smell was coming on. Clean but without any clean clothes I had no choice but to put my smelly ones back. I found my cell-phone in my trouser pocket and decided to give Daniel a call. But I couldn't dial “SIM ERROR”. My phone must be blocked too! I ran downstairs to ask for Wi-Fi, so I could make a WhatsApp call. $10 later I had a Wi-Fi access code. Daniel picked up after 3 rings; “I've been trying to call you man!, I was at the US embassy today, the FBI says I, together with a co-worker are under suspicion of grand theft and fraud. They interviewed me via video link and told me to return to the USA urgently for further questioning. They also asked where you are”. I told him I was in Brussels and also about Natasha and the drug mafia, the chase and being shot at outside JFK and being followed by Sheraton here in Brussels. Daniel was thinking about where I should go whilst we tried to clear our names.

“The problem with this particular mafia is that they are so smart and well organized.” Even if I could convince the FBI I needed protection, and they would also get information on Natasha and the money locations it would be very difficult for them to keep me safe. Daniel finished thinking. “You need to get someplace where they can't just can't get to follow you that quickly. A place away from Europe that requires a visa and has strong borders”. He went on to see that he has a friend in the West African country of Ghana who could help look after me whilst we figure out what to do next. “I'll give my friend Osei Mensah a call.”

“Ghana? This trip to Belgium is my first-ever trip outside the USA!”

10 minutes later Daniel called back “Write this down. Go to the Ghanaian Embassy. You have to hurry because the visa section closes at 3. Ask for an express 24-hour visa. You will need to fill out my friend Osei's details on the form I am sending you them now.”

I picked up the card and called Albert, the cab driver. He picked me up after only a few minutes.

“Ghanaian embassy.”

I walked into the complex, took a queue number and sat down. The walls have had portraits of all the presidents since Independence from Great Britain in 1957 starting with Dr. Kwame Nkrumah as the republic’s first president. As I filled out the form I noticed the question if I had been involved in any criminal activity. “No”. I hadn't. Ever. I was able to pay cash with U.S. dollars and was told the visa would be ready for collection after 10am tomorrow.

Albert drove me to the airport. At Brussels airlines they told me that there was one flight for 11.30. That is cutting it very fine! With my ticket booked, Albert was driving me back to the hotel. We talked about things to see in Brussels. I decided to stop at the EU headquarters. Daniel spoke of how he had been there once. Albert said the same silver Mercedes had been following us for the past 10 minutes. It had to be them! How do they keep finding me? Nevertheless, I wasn't going to let this stop me. The European Parliament. I decided to get out of the cab there. The driver told me today they have sightseeing tours. Though security would be extra tight as the British prime minister was on approach for one of the many Brexit negotiations talks. Perfect. I could hopefully disappear there, after a barrage of security, including metal detectors. Access to the front was blocked, so I had to walk the last few bits. It was raining. The Audi was still behind me. I saw the two men get out. They walked what must have been 200 yards behind me. Now I felt angry. I walked back right towards them. There was police and press all around, so I felt safe. I got within a few yards of the men and shouted:

“What the h*ll do you want with me”. They laughed at me but didn't answer. In anger, I ran back towards one of the entrances. A police officer stopped me and asked where I was going. I told him about the tours. I was directed to an entrance with a revolving door. Sure enough there was airport-style security. I looked back. The two men were standing across the street smoking. Then, after the metal detectors I had to show my ID. Good thing I had my passport on me. I paid and got a ticket. I was assigned to a group of 20 people. The first stop was a small movie theater where we were shown a movie on the history of how the European Community was back then until today's European Union. The film ended, and we walked out to begin the tour of some of the many parts of the massive buildings. We continued with a number of large meeting rooms and then on to a viewing gallery over the massive parliament hall itself. Brexit fever was high. The host told us the hot topic was the breakdown in talks about the post-Brexit rights of the 2.9 million European Union citizens resident in the United Kingdom and the 1.3 million United Kingdom citizens in the other EU countries. As the short film was over, and we exited, I asked the men again. One of the leading players in Brexit, a former leader of the UK Independence party member, UKIP,

and a current

member of the European Parliament for the same party, UKIP, Mr. Nigel Farage was speaking it out. The host of the tour group was bemused and told us this

was known

as “the Nigel Farage show,” though it would probably end when Brexit Day comes March 31st 2019. Mr Farage was leaving the party due to its current leader embracing Tommy Robinson a self-styled neo-anti something immigrant figure of British fringe politics, and Mr Farage was staying true to the out-of-EU cause and perhaps forming a new party down the line if as he puts it 'Brexit isn't delivered on time.'

The Farage show lasted for a few minutes, followed by responses from a few other members of the European Parliament. A break came up for us to get sandwiches and other refreshments in a nearby cafeteria.

I went to the restroom. It had been days since I got rid of a big load and it was way due now. Suddenly, as I was in the stall with my pants down on the toilet, the door opened. It was the two men! I shouted for help but one of them held my mouth. They were big guys. The other guy got a syringe out and prepped it with some liquid. He managed to get heavy duct tape over my mouth and made the tape turn several times around my head. Whatever they were about to inject into me it wouldn't be good! Surely enough in a heavy accent the man said I was going to die but it would be very quick. I tried to wrestle but to no avail the guy had a firm neck lock on me. The man held my arms whilst the other got closer with the syringe trying to find a spot to insert it. I used what I had; my head and head-butted the guy right in his left eye. He lost his grip on my arms for a short moment. I felt I had one load of fecal matter left in me. I thought to myself: this is it I must expunge what's left and use it. Fortunately, the final load of feces splurged out. The smell was rancid. What a way to die, I thought. I got my hand down in the toilet and fished out the feces and threw it in his face right between his eyes. I had some left for the other guy's face too, and he dropped the syringe. I ran for it. As I exited I tripped over a trash bin but managed to avoid hurting myself by regaining my balance. I pulled my pants up, leaving a fat stain from some of the excrement left on my right hand. A bit of silver duct tape was hanging from my neck. I was going to shout in the corridor but instead just ran and ran. A few bewildered people looked at me. I ran back towards the viewing gallery. I got into a long, slightly bent corridor. There was a small entourage coming my way. I recognized this guy. It was Mr. Farage and a few others talking quite loudly with British accents. They looked at me with amazement. Mr. Farage looked startled and said; “I thought I had seen it all, what goes on here, but this really takes the biscuit!”

His colleague, a tall press officer, helped me get the tape off. “Where is the Brexit, I mean exit?” I asked. The man nearest to Mr. Farage told me to carry on and take the first elevator down. I thanked them and told them there were two killers in the building. I really needed to wash my hands. I found a door which I hoped would lead me to some place where I could wash my hands. I tried a few doors away. I was stopped by a security guard who said this section was not available to the public. I showed him my hand and told him it was an emergency. I was directed to a nearby rest room. I thoroughly washed my hands. It was way too late for my pants and the rest of the region. And it stunk. At least I was alive. I went back out into the corridor. More people were coming. A tired looking woman with gray hair followed with a tall man in his 50s and a bunch of aides and security guards. One of them pushed me aside and told me not to move until they had passed. I recognized her from the TV. The British Prime Minister Theresa May. (I later looked up the man on Google, and it was the chief negotiator for the EU, Mr. Michel Barnier.) And there I was unable to get anywhere smelling of my own excrement. To my horror I felt my unwiped buttocks had now smeared the bad stuff all over the backside of my thin pants and it was seeping through. It left a small mark on the wall I was pressed up against. I pointed it out to the guard, who said he would have it taken care of. Some story to tell people back home if I could make it alive. I looked over towards the end of the corridor and could see a couple of levels down. I saw the two men heading for the exit. All I had to do was to get out somehow. I checked my phone to get a map up but it was out of battery. I waited 10 minutes. Fortunately there were plenty of cabs outside. I got in one, and the driver gave me a newspaper to sit on and got me back to the hotel. To my relief, no one was following me. After a long cleanup at the hotel I went to bed.

Akwaaba

Albert was stuck in traffic across town, so a hotel receptionist called for another cab. I had a short time to go to the embassy and then the airport for my flight.

Five minutes after ten o'clock, I had my visa stamp, yellow with a seal of The Black Star, the symbol of the Republic of Ghana. Three months multiple entry visa. They also told me I must

have a Yellow

Fever inoculation. Normally this is required at least 10 days before travel but they issued me with a waiver if I promised to get vaccinated before departure. Fortunately there was a travel clinic near the EU building where I got the vaccination and a card to prove I had received it. Albert got me to the airport for 10.45. Checkin had closed! I pleaded with the checkin agent and only after telling her I had no luggage and it was just to get the visa that had delayed me, she picked up her walkie-talkie and spoke French for a few moments, waited a few moments then spoke again and then to me: “You must hurry through fast track and gate C31 they can admit you if you will be there in less than fifteen minutes so you must run!”

I ran and ran feeling lactic acid building up. Having said that by not carrying any luggage really makes everything faster! As I was going through the metal detector I heard my name, “Mr. George Lunden traveling to Accra on Brussels Airlines, your flight is closing Gate C31.” I saw the gates 29,30 then at 31 there was a lady tapping on the computer. I did not see anyone lined up. I got to the gate with less than a minute to spare. This plane looked the same as the one I came here from New York. I managed to get a WiFi signal, got my phone and sent Osei Mensah a message: “Hi Osei this is Daniel's friend I am on a Brussels Airlines flight from Brussels landing 4.30pm”. My phone had one bar on the Wi-Fi signal as I took my seat on the plane. I got a message back.

“Hello George, I will be happy to welcome you to Ghana and have a nice flight. Osei.”

West Africa, here I come! A few days ago I was buying real estate in LA. My life just seemed like a weird dream. I wondered how the lovely Melissa had suggested Accra. I wonder if she somehow knew I was going there. The doors had just closed and an announcement came over the in-flight speaker system:

“Bonne après-midi. Ceci est votre capitaine Charles. Je vous souhaite la bienvenue à bord de ce vol qui vous mènera confortablement à Accra.” Then the same in Dutch and then in English. By the time they had just about finished the safety briefing in English, the plane had started accelerating down the runway. As we broke through the clouds, a less than an appealing smell entered my nose. My clothes were quite dirty! They were sticking to my skin and I had to use napkins to wipe off stains.

On this flight I ate and had 2 glasses of red wine and one martini that I had just finished when the mother of all migraines kicked in. Somewhere over the Sahara I really felt it. I asked for some pain killers, they did very little nothing. Most likely due to the past days stress and lack of eating and drinking not much healthy fluids but wine and a few caffeinated drinks triggered my rare but painful migraines. One of the air-hostesses noticed I was in pain came to me with a small can of orange juice, a wine glass and a bottle of Tabasco sauce. “A passenger with a severe migraine taught me this trick on a flight a few years ago. “Drink Tabasco straight then rinse with orange juice!” Seems crazy, but the pain I was in didn't allow me to ponder: I emptied two tablespoons worth of Tabasco into the glass, drank it straight then a glass of orange juice right after. Indeed, after a short moment the headache lifted. Though half an hour later it was back. Turns out the Tabasco trick gives only short relief. I later researched this, Tabasco contains Capsaicin which deactivates pain receptors. After 3 repeats and drinking a lot of juice and water, most of the pain was gone and didn't return.

I looked down and saw lush green forests followed by large patches of desert. I later learned these desert areas were not natural but the result of decades of deforestation of the rainforest. I was pleased to see that as we were over Lake Volta in south central Ghana the forest became again very lush. We descended through thick, dark gray clouds. There was a fair bit of turbulence. The captain came on: “Ladies and gentlemen, we have commenced our descent into Accra Kotoka Airport, where we expect to land in 25 minutes. We are passing through an area of thunderstorms so expect some turbulence.“ There were a few bumps here and there but didn't do anything to interrupt the cabin crew collecting the remaining service items. I looked out and saw some heavy thick gray clouds. A man on the opposite was on his laptop and he seemed frustrated. I asked him what was wrong. He said a web presentation was filling the whole screen.

10 minutes before landing the clouds cleared and the turbulence stopped. For the final minutes of the flights I saw a lot of Palm trees, nice colorful houses and swimming pools similar to flying over LA. I like being back in a warm climate. We touched down 10 minutes ahead of schedule. “Welcome to Accra. The local time is 4.30pm and the temperature is 31 degrees Celsius.” I wasn't all that sure what that was but remember when we had landed in Brussels from New York it was 5 degrees Celsius and just a tad less cold than New York there. The door opened and I felt this sweet flower type scented warm moist air hit me. It was nice and welcoming. They had us transfer to a bus which took us to the terminal where there is a small entrance that had a sign saying “Welcome to Ghana, Akwaaba” As I stood in line, I started sweating. I saw the immigration staff sitting behind their counters tapping away at computer keyboards and swiping passengers passports. What if the FBI had issued an international arrest warrant? The layout reminded me of a lot of US airports, especially JFK. The same type of booth, with immigration officers calling people over. Fortunately the man just tapped a bit on his computer keyboard, flicked through a couple of the pages of my passport, then stamped it and told me to hand in the customs declaration card to customs on my way out. He then smiled and said: “Welcome to Ghana, I hope you will enjoy your stay.”

Osei texted me to say the bus he was on from the Western Region had broken down and due to heavy rains there would be great difficulty continuing the journey to Accra so he wouldn't make it tonight. He was heading back and advised me to go to a hotel like Accra City. Passing through customs was easy and people were really friendly. Plenty of people were waiting outside and some very eager taxi drivers. They were almost fighting to get me. I went with the flow and got into one of the cabs. Normally the advice is, at foreign airports, beware of eager cab drivers. But after being shot at at JFK by the mafia one doesn't care about getting into a cab which may or may not charge too much. I asked this cab driver to take me to Accra city hotel and if $20 would be OK. $20 would do just fine. The ride was only about 15 minutes, but during that time I got to know a little about the driver who they call by the name Frank. Frank asked about my luggage or rather my lack of luggage. I told him I had left it behind and if he could recommend anywhere to get clothes. He turned into a side street into the Aerostar restaurant, opened the car window and called a street vendor who was carrying a bunch of very colorful African clothing along with souvenirs. Frank told me I could get some nice Ghana made local style clothes from this man. Perfect, I need clean clothes. To my luck, the man also sold tennis socks. My socks were the smelliest part on me right now. I looked at the socks. The vendor man said: “They are Ghana black stars football team socks”. I got seven pairs of those which is all the man had on him along with three shirts with Adinkra print and two red Dashikis.

Frank started talking about the things I should see in Ghana before leaving. I thought telling him about why I'm really here; escaping the mafia and FBI was too much for a fifteen-minute ride. I habitually checked the rear for any silver Audi or just mafia looking people. It did hit me, here, where there are very few white people, at least percentage-wise, if the New York-Russian mafia did manage to figure out I was here they would be easy to spot in a crowd. In fact, as long as I was the only white person around I felt very safe. Indeed, Frank told me that crime levels are low in Ghana and one should be roughly as safe as New York city, probably safer in fact. We pulled into Accra city, a 4+ star hotel. Very spacious and beautiful, comparable to a luxury hotel in the USA and prices thereafter too. At $200 a night I got a nice large air-conditioned comfortable room overlooking the pool. I got into the elevator, swiped the key card and pressed the #5 button. My room was at the end of the corridor. The door had an extra chain to lock which I did. Before going to sleep I checked behind the doors and under the bed for the mafia. I picked up a cold beer from the mini bar refrigerator and turned on the large flat-screen TV. Many channels too. I stopped at Fox Business. Maria Santiago was reading the news with many screens in the background and the double electronic ticker tapes with market data running across the lower part of the screen as usual. An image popped up on the left-hand side of the screen with mine and Daniel's face on it !

“And now for the latest news from Wall Street, following the fraud at Reading-Nixon & Smedley, the FBI have issued arrest warrants against the brokers Mr. George Lunden of Westchester, New York and Mr. Daniel Kelly of Hoboken, New Jersey. At this point the FBI has been unable to make the actual arrests due to both suspects being out of the country with Mr. Lunden last located on a late flight to Brussels Tuesday evening, and Mr. Kelly has been in Budapest for the past two weeks. Mr. Lunden is also wanted in connection with a large quantity of cocaine found at his home. The illegal drugs would have fetched at least 200 million on the street. His girlfriend, who denies any knowledge, says that her boyfriend is deeply involved with an International drug cartel and that she fears for her life. Due to the severity of the drug charges, the FBI is expected to issue an international arrest warrant.”

I slumped back into the chair which fortunately was next to

me or else

I would have fallen on to the floor. The paralyzing feeling came back. My head was spinning. This just can't end well! Surely Ghana must have extradition treaties with the United States and the FBI might even order a special plane to bring me back. As I looked around the quiet hotel room and out over the pool area and palm trees I contrasted the serenity of where I was with images in my head of being led in handcuffs onto an FBI charter flight with the Mafia death squad waiting for me in some sad U.S. high security jail.

I regained movement and stumbled into the elevator to go down to the lobby. On the 3rd floor a young couple came in, an Italian lady and a local guy. They were

in a party

mood. The lady was slightly drunk wearing a

bright

blue and red dress, the man smartly dressed in a white suit top with black trousers.

“Buenas noches señor” The woman smiled at me and she continued “Come and join me and my boyfriend for a night out it is his birthday. We are getting married this week.” “That's nice, happy for you two. Tho.. I can’t I am having a lot of business problems”. “Nooo tonight is party night and we are going out, you just have to come with us.” “I'm afraid the FBI or CIA will send a plane to pick me up and send me to a deep security prison cell in a New York State jail.”

The woman started laughing hard “You are so very funny, you Americans. Ciao Ciao” I wish I was joking. I made it to the bar, a nice, well-stocked bar with pretty much every drink you could imagine.

“Double whiskey please.” Three double whiskeys later, I decided it would be less painful to be arrested. Somewhat drunk, I told the bartender good night;“Tell the FBI I am in room 585 and I like to be buried anywhere in Chicago, when the Mafia gets me.” Okay, I was drunk. I've always been a lightweight. I looked out at the pool area outside. So pretty, with nice deck chairs, tables and lights. I could sober up a little outside. Palm trees between the pool area and the adjacent grass grounds which looked like a little park. I walked out and felt the lovely warm air. I really don't want to go to jail. As I walked by the pool I tried to just enjoy the moment because I was quite sure the FBI was halfway across the Atlantic by now.

My phone

rang

. I tried to find which pocket. Butt pockets. No, left, maybe....right? I grabbed the phone but it slipped out of my hand and landed on the floor. As I bent down to pick it

up, I

lost my balance and fell right into the pool with a really loud splash. A British couple sitting in on of the boots started debating how to help me.

“Oh dear he's drunk I suppose we need to help him.” I heard the woman call out: “Simon just jump in!”

Before the Englishman was able to the bartender beat him to it and jumped in and pulled me to the stairs. The Englishman helped me up the stairs. He gave me a towel and asked if I was OK. I said I needed to call the American Embassy. Why did I say that I didn't know? The bartender told me he would call them. The Englishman found my phone and handed it to me. Daniel had sent me a WhatsApp message;

“Remember the intern we had last summer? Carlos. I forgot his last-name. And how he was fired for alleged spying or snooping around the office? I think he might be able to help us please. Do you remember his last name”

I remember we had a summer intern who was in charge of general word processing duties, taking down memos and organizing the company's main email in-box. He was fired after only a month, and Simon and Russell said they couldn't trust him after Sally had seen him put printed papers in his backpack. I can't at the top of my head remember the guy's name. But I knew what Daniel was getting at. The bartender came back with a cordless phone and I dialed the number:

“The embassy is closed, our business hours are Monday through Friday nine-thirty am until five pm. If you are a U.S. citizen in Ghana and require urgent assistance key in your Social Security number followed by hash..” My heart started beating This is a way to surely tell them where I am but I wanted this to end I keyed in

…. The automated voice continued, “Enter your zip code and date of birth in format month day and four digit year”. I entered the zip and date of birth I heard “Just a moment” followed by a US dialing tone. The other end picked up.

“This is a U.S. consular assistance center in Kentucky, how may I help?” I told them I needed to talk to someone at the embassy and that the only trouble I was in was back home.

“You're calling from Accra Ghana sir?. The embassy there will open nine thirty in the am local time sir. “

“Mam, is there not anything in your system telling me I am in deep trouble?”

“No sir I don't have any such information at the moment, if you visit the U.S. embassy in the morning you can get information there, do you need the address?”

“I'll find it, thanks.”

I got back to my room, took off my wet clothes and washed them out with some of the shampoo so at least I would have some fresh clothes by morning and got into bed. I woke up after a dream. In my dream there were US army helicopters like the ones used in Vietnam. Under the helicopters were Russian mafia men with automatic weapons. My ex-girlfriend was piloting the helicopter. I ran for my life past the pool to try to take shelter past the palm trees, but as the helicopters descended the men jumped down with glider parachutes. The wind from the helicopters rotor blades shook loose coconuts from the trees and I picked some up and threw back (with amazing strength and accuracy) at the helicopters. This delayed the men getting to me but I heard them shooting at me. I woke up in a pool of sweat breathing heavily. I looked around. Everything was calm. I walked up, opened the window and looked up. No helicopters. I felt relieved at first but I kept thinking that they are still coming for me. I wanted to run away. Maybe going to surrender myself to the embassy was a bad idea. I could hide in the rain forest deep inland or head to some other

countries

. I went into the bathroom and took a shower. It calmed me down. I turned the TV on. Flipped through the channels nearing Fox Business. I dreaded what news was on. Relief. Just a documentary about coffee production in Bolivia and Chile I just remembered Carlos last name “Andres”. I WhatsApp “Carlos Andres” to Daniel.

Five minutes later Daniel responded, “I found a couple lets call them, here are some.” I wrote down the numbers on a note besides the phone, too tired now. I decided I would need all the powers for the next day. One Melatonin and two Benadryls later I was out into deep.

I woke up around 7am. I felt a sense of relief again. I was still free in my hotel room. I was looking for clothes. As I had pressed the socks against the towels they were by now dry, as was my only pair of underwear. The shirt was still wet so I put on the blue dashiki and headed for the reception where they booked me a taxi. Whilst I let me skin dry from the shower I booted the laptop. It got as far as the Windows 7 login screen. I hit Ctrl + alt + delete and tried a few words with numbers known to Natasha. Pradabag2012, Dolce&Gabbana. No luck. I gave up, got dressed, packed the laptop into the black plastic bag which the colorful shorts came in yesterday. As I got downstairs, just before the lobby I noticed a gift shop. In there I found a nice embroidered backpack. I checked the price tag, it came in at $45. The lady told me it was hand made with Ghanaian made thick cotton colored with Akan Adinkra patterns in all the main colors with Red, Green, Yellow, Blue and Black being dominant. The lady who sold it to be It was perfect for the laptop with room for more things. I tried it and the laptop fit perfectly.

Whilst I waited in the lobby I called Daniel. I told him I was going to the embassy. He was a bit hesitant. The FBI could have the laptop. Who knows what was on it. It was better for them to figure it out and he was sure they had a specialist IT. department which could read just about anything from any device, at least from a Windows laptop. I looked for anything inside the SD-card slot or CD -Rom but there was nothing attached. I pushed the laptop back into the back-back. There was no card reader in the laptop for these chips. If there was one there before, it had been removed. I asked Daniel if he was safe. He didn't want to worry me so he hadn't told me he was actually now in Sofia, Bulgaria. When he got back

to the Budapest

hotel room where he had stayed, he found the room ransacked and bits of his belongings strewn around. He had traveled on buses through Serbia and narrowly avoided Schengen exit control. He is now at Sofia airport on his way to Ghana via Istanbul, Turkey to join me. He had had enough of near-misses with the Mafia.

“What about a visa?”

“I got a one-year Visa last April ago I had planned to look for my son believe it or not but I never went. It is still valid. I will connect via Istanbul and arrive this evening.” Daniel told me when he arrived he had gone ended up in a modern, developing part of Sofia and met a handsome African-American looking guy. The guy stopped his car had helped him find his way when he had tried to find a hotel and was wandering along a dark road. This guy told him he is not from the United States but actually a Nigerian Medical Doctor who had invested in a couple apartments and now looking to invest in a small tech start up making apps for medical applications. Daniel was good on the eastern European markets so they got talking and the man introduced himself as Sammy. Sammy had to go back to his wife who had come along for the trip but Daniel could stay in one of Sammy's apartments where a tenant had just moved out for the night. In the morning Sammy and the wife brought Daniel breakfast and they all drove to the airport, the couple were catching a morning flight also, back to Cologne where they live. Funny thing Daniel said “The Doctor was concerned about my health?”I asked him at that point what he meant. Daniel recalled the conversation. The Nigerian doctor, said that I don't look well and he had seen this in patients. Before working in Germany he had worked for two years in South Africa. There a lot of patients had this look. But also in Europe and in his home country. I wanted to ask him more but at the same time I was busy and he was busy. He asked about my weight. I didn't know as it was ages ago I stepped onto a scale but I admitted I was on hole number five on my belt. I usually was on hole two or three. I had a slight whitish layer around my eyes and on my forehead it looked almost like frost. He said it could be a type of fungus. I had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom. He asked me how often I did that and I said about five times a day. I said to Daniel that if he think he wasn't well it was alright for him to stay and seek a doctor. But he said he would feel more at home in Ghana than in Hungary, Bulgaria or Turkey where he had never been before. If anything bad went down he'd rather be in a fully English-speaking country. “Let's get this checked out as soon as we're settled OK” I told Daniel. Daniel wanted to tell me he already had some weeks ago but he was scared of the results. I put the phone down in my pocket and quickly took the elevator back up to my room and placed the jar with chips in the safe. Back down to the lobby the taxi had arrived. The driver smiled and said “Makyeeo” but I didn't understand. He thought maybe I was living in Ghana as I already was trying more local clothes. “

Makyeeo

[mach-e-oo] means good morning in Ashanti-Twi which is one of the main languages of Ghana I was told. The driver taught me a few more words.

“eti-sen – how are you”

“me hoye – I'm fine”

“me yare – I'm ill”

“me-daasi – Thank you”

I like it sounds beautiful and has a lot of vowels. The roads were surprisingly clear as we passed a huge, very modern building with many Ghanaian flags by the front fence. The driver pointed it out as the Ghanaian parliament and seat of government, Flagstaff house. Sun was out blazing though I learned the 90 degree heat comes after lunch. There is a lag of several hours between sun coming up and it is getting hot. A bit further, we entered a neighborhood which looked not too dissimilar to Beverly Hills, nice big houses and beautiful gardens. Many of the houses were foreign embassies and agencies. The biggest building with large grounds and heavy fencing was the USA embassy.

I paid the driver and got out. Heart racing and I walked up to the security guards, two large U.S. Marine Corps soldiers type guys, maybe they were marines. I showed one of them my passport. I was directed into the grounds and to another guard and waiting room. An electric fence opened and closed behind me. Then a set of metal doors. There were quite a few people here mostly locals for visas to the United States. I took a number for inquiries. 18 and we were at 14. I saw a few other non locals probably Americans I presumed. The Embassy is USA alright everything American, the furniture, the waiting room chairs the same as you see in many social security waiting rooms back home, the gray-speckled linoleum floors, the curtains. In the corner

a large

stars and stripes flag on a stand. On the wall a large photo of President Trump followed by a number of smaller photos of previous US presidents. On the other site a large TV showing different US cities and landmarks. I walked over to the water machine a few times then back to my seat. The waiting to be seen numbers were at 6. I got my phone out and sent a text to Carlos. Within a minute, he responded. I watched the numbers, still at 6. I went out into the hallway and called Carlos. I decided to tell him what had happened. He was not surprised he said, and he had seen the news at his end.

“Simon Smedley has bought lavish apartments and houses in Moscow and South America. His main operation used to be run from his Moscow apartment where he spent most of his time until about 10 years ago when he has since spent his time in New York city.”

I asked about the laptop but Carlos told me the real information was hiding on some kind of proprietary memory chips. I told him I had some of those but I couldn’t get them to be read although the laptop had a card reader (

like the one

I had never seen before), I hadn’t been able to get past the password on the laptop.

Carlos said he found a bunch of card readers, he took one and he wanted to try a chip but decided it was too risky at the time. He had also overheard a conversation between Simon and someone else on the phone about that “anyone finds out about

this, they

must be eliminated.”

He said he could send it via express like FedEx or something. I

would to

get back to him as I wasn’t sure where I could time the package to get to me. I thanked

him and

walked back to my seat.

As I watched the numbers edge closer to 18 my heart started beating faster. At number 17, time seemed to stop. Then came my number came. I walked up to the counter. A brown haired white woman in her late 20s smiled and greeted me. I tried to think about how to explain myself.

“I am George Lunden [stuttering], and I have been implicated in the Reading-Nixon and Smedley finance affair, and I saw on the news the FBI wants to talk to me”.

The woman looked again at my passport and took it. “Let me find out what we can do, Mr. Lunden,I'll be right back.”

I started sweating and looked around the room wondering if anyone overheard the conversation. It took some time, and several minutes later she came out with an older man. “You can step in here sir” and they opened a door to the office. I walked up a couple of stairs into a hallway and to a large meeting room. There was a phone on the table. The man introduced himself as the U.S. Ambassador to Ghana, Mr. Gareth Jackson. He said he had received a memo that the arrest warrant was issued last night and would be carried out today before noon by the local police. I told him my side of the

story, including

how I was chased and shot at at JFK and that was the main reason I left. I showed him the images I had saved of the cocaine on the bedroom table and Natasha in bed with the guy. I then brought out the laptop and told him:

“As you know my ex-girlfriend, Natasha was involved in a drug Mafia operation supplying a large part of the current cocaine in USA. I got this out of the house before I was shot at at JFK by

two masked

men. I took off my jacket and shirt and showed him the dressing which was slightly covered in blood. I haven't been able to retrieve what is on the laptop but I know they really wanted laptop.”

Mr. Jackson started dialing on the phone, introduced himself and asked for Detective Miller.

“Just a moment... This is Miller.”

“Good morning, this is Gareth Jackson US Embassy in Accra, we spoke yesterday about George Lunden,

he's in here

now, in his possession he has a Lenovo laptop serial number TW.....

and a Blackberry

cell phone”.

Ambassador Jackson pressed the mute button. “I want you to repeat everything you told me to Detective Miller, I'm hoping you could be back at your hotel this afternoon, I can't give you any promises.” He un-muted the line and I was back on the phone with the FBI.

Half an hour later, Detective Miller rounded up. I was asked to email over the photos from my phone

and surrender

it to the ambassador for immediate shipment back to FBI.

“After you have emailed over the photos and surrendered your laptop you may write down a couple of contacts from your phone as long as Ambassador Jackson supervises you, do not delete or manipulate anything on the phone, we will be back in a couple of hours and you are to be detailed by the local police until we have deliberated, is that clear?”

“Also I need to

get hold

of the other co-accused, Mr. Daniel fix me, please get him to get in touch as soon as possible”

Ambassador Jackson would let me know once they got some news on the laptop. He placed it in a sealed bag, then a large white Tyvek bag with large letters written across it, reading: “Do not open outside the U.S. diplomatic material.”

“This will work in your favor, I'm shipping this to the FBI now.”

Ambassador Jackson picked up the phone again then turned over to me. The FBI has said that based on this new information which they would check out and based on that I was shot at I should not contact the local police to have me arrested this stage but I am urged to return to the United States as soon as possible. He told me I needed to get my gun shot wound looked at asap. He told me to come with him. We walked to the car park. He drove me to Ridge Hospital nearby. There was a queue of people. As a non-citizen I paid the admission fee and was told to wait. The Ambassador said he didn't mind killing some time here. He was also keen to find out the extent of my wound and maybe even get some photos to send back to the FBI.

After twenty minutes a doctor came and escorted me into his office. He introduced himself as Dr Isaac. Ambassador Jackson waited outside. The doctor a tall man in his early 50s started talking to me. I told him I was shot at by some men in New York city. I then said a doctor on the plane had dressed the wound. “He did a very good job. I don't see any infection but you should take some antibiotics. He called for a nurse to bring him a box of Septrin and another of Flagyl, two broad spectrum antibiotics which should cover the immediate risk. The nurse started cleaning the wound again, I felt the pain again, not as much as before. Doctor Isaac took out a flashlight to get a good visual inspection. He paused and said “Do you know how many times you were shot?”

I told him “They fired several shots at me but I think only one bullet hit me and it exited which is what the doctor on the plane to Brussels told me. He put on disposable gloves and started feeling further below at my right side by the rib cage. “Feel this? He said.” I felt some pain. I had felt this ever since I got on the plane at JFK but I assumed it was

a bruise

from hitting something. “I see an entry wound, but there's no exit wound.” I think we should X-ray you. He walked me out and I saw Ambassador Jackson coming towards us. “I think he may have a bullet in

him,

” said the doctor to the Ambassador.

He wrote a referral to x-ray and surgery. I was told to pay 5000 cedis deposit at the cashier. Fortunately I carried $5000 on me as I thought I might need it. I paid $1300 in dollars at the cashier. I went up a couple of flights of stairs for X-ray. Another doctor was at the X-ray room. They had a newer type computerized x-ray. He told me to take off my shirt which I did. I stood in front of the machine. I heard a sound and then the doctor told me to come over. He showed me the image which was being built. “See that. You have a small metal object about two centimeters above the side of your liver. It looks like a bullet and it needs to come out. I will call Dr Isaac as he is a surgeon.”

Dr. Isaac came in moments later. The doctors in the examination room talked for a while in front of the X-ray monitor. Dr. Isaac told me he would fit me in for surgery now. It was a fairly easy procedure as the bullet was located a few centimeters inside. A nurse got me a wheelchair and we took the elevator up another floor.

They got me into a small room with a surgery table. The room was quite warm and the windows were open. Dr. Isaac started cleaning the wound. He and the nurse put on gloves. Another nurse, a male, came in. He also put on gloves. Dr. Isaac said he would use local anesthesia. He prepped the syringe and injected it a few times around the wound. He tapped with an instrument a few times at the area. He asked if I could feel anything. I couldn't. The whole procedure only took a few moments. Then I heard the sound I had only heard in movies. The sound of a bullet falling into a metal tray. What a relief! I told the doctor how good that felt. He replied “It was a couple of years ago I last dealt with a gunshot wound. Fortunately we do not get these often here.” The male nurse sewed up the wound and swabbed it with iodine then put a dressing on it. Then they also changed my other dressing. The doctor cleaned off the bullet with some cotton wool and then the bullet in a plastic zip lock bag and handed it to me. I thanked him and the two nurses. I wasn't sure Ambassador Jackson was waiting still but he was. I showed him the bullet. Normally I would stay at the hospital for a couple of days. I was in an OK condition to return to the hotel. I showed the bullet to Mr. Jackson. I wondered about how this bullet could have stayed inside me with relatively little damage whilst the other bullet did such damage. Mr Jackson who had been in the army remembers his knowledge of arms and bullets. It is very probably that this 2nd bullet deflected off a nearby surface, lost a significant amount of energy, it had just enough energy to hit and penetrate my skin and rapidly slow down once it encountered my flesh. He studied it. “This is not an American bullet. I'd say older Russian 1970s which would make it Soviet, as a matter of fact. I will send it over to the FBI for further analysis.”

Ambassador Jackson drove me to Accra Mall where I first changed some dollars into Ghanaian Cedis. About 23 Cents to a Cedi. I felt some pain and I was a bit dizzy. For a moment I thought I'd pass out. We saw down at a restaurant where I had some pineapple juice. I felt some strength and walked into a large department store. I got a moderately priced Android phone and a local number with MTN which is one of the main carriers. I also bought new clothes, especially socks and underwear. In the taxi back I assembled the phone. The first person I called when I got back to the hotel was Osei Mensah. He said he would be in Accra this evening. I told him I needed a cheaper accommodation. At $200 a night I wouldn't last that long as this could be weeks, even months. (Turns out I was going to depart this beautiful place much sooner so there was no need to look for accommodation now.) On my new phone, I looked up Natasha. I found that the FBI had issued an arrest for her shortly after I had called, but that she had left for Moscow Tuesday night, the same night I had left for Brussels. The afternoon sun looked very inviting so I went down by the pool. Alone in the pool under the hot sun I felt on top of the world. I stayed in by the pool all afternoon. I wish I could live here for a month or why not forever.

“George!” A handsome man in his 50s with a big smile and fledgling dreadlocks came walking down. I recognized him from the photo Daniel had sent me, which was of a tall older man with dreadlocks

and a Rasta

hat

. He asked a waiter to come over and ordered a tiger nut juice with some water. He was going to a friend's house in East Legon and would pick me up in the morning to go to Cape Coast, which would be a 3 hours drive. He was excited when I told him Daniel was on his way here. We got up to make our way to the airport to meet Daniel. We walked over to the parking area, Osei had borrowed a friend's car. On the way to the airport, Osei got talking about himself and how he met Daniel.

He was born in Mandeville Jamaica in 1952 his dad had taken him and his family over to Ghana in the 1960s when Osei was 13 to be part of the new Africa; after independence, a number of Jamaicans and others from the New World of African ancestry were encouraged to come to their motherlands. His dad worked as a train driver for Ghana railways and his mother a nurse at Ridge Hospital. His oldest brother stayed in Jamaica and the two younger sisters came with the family to Ghana. I was about to ask him because his accent seemed fairly Jamaican. His dad had already given the children Akan [a large

population

in modern-day

Ghana stemming back

from ancient times

] names and nearly all Jamaicans can trace their roots back to West Africa. I hadn't had time to ask Daniel about Osei. So over two drinks at the bar as the sun was setting I did. Osei told me he met Daniel in New York in the mid 1990s when he had started working for Ghana Airways as a pilot and Daniel worked at JFK as a junior refueling engineer and they became friends. Osei flew in to JFK a couple of times a week and they would hang out. Friday nights were the best! Osei knew that Daniel was gay and that it didn't bother him he could have gay and straight friends. The return flight wasn't until Sunday evening. They would go into Manhattan, go up in the Empire State Building, then a night out on the town, even let Daniel take them to some gay clubs. It was magical.”

As we pulled into the paid parking lot at Kotoka Airport asked me: “You miss New York City already ?” I told him not right now, I don't know how much Daniel had told Osei but I explained it is a mess for me right now. Here in Accra life is different: there is a calm and serenity about life despite people on average less wealthy. I see there are some poor areas here and some upcoming ones too. Even in the poor areas I sense a chilled calm, I mean in many cities back home where people are poor they shoot at others and each other.”

Osei told me that is part of the Ghanaian way, peaceful and God-fearing. Salaries vary a lot, though he told me, “George, mandafo, money isn't the only way you can get rich, there are people here who earn little and they still find happiness and a rich life. Of course if they manage to make it rich it doesn't hurt.'

My phone rang/ I picked it up, it was Daniel! Without answering, I handed over the phone to Osei. He was speaking a local language for a few moments with Daniel and launched then they spoke in English. Osei looked more serious, then he handed me the phone back. Out of the words I could make out a name, Sandra Kwamina Thompson. I got the phone back and asked him who is that. Daniel replied: “She has a kid about 10 years old, the dad is … me.” Osei told me the rest of the story. 11 years ago, when Daniel was 25 he traveled to Ghana to see a male flight attendant for Ghana Airways. They had met too on a night out in New York during a layover as Osei used to hang out with them. Daniel and the flight attendant, Peter, were dating so you could call them boyfriends. The relationship only lasted about a year, and during that year he made two trips to Ghana. On the second trip he met Sandra at a party thrown by friends of Peter. Daniel had a bit to drink, and though he hadn't shown an interest in women he took a liking to Sandra. She had also drunk a fair bit and being single at age 29 being with a man, a handsome man was right in her book. She had a somewhat troubled life with her parents having sent her to to university in the UK at age 17 where she had met a man who was sent off to Iraq as one of the last British troops to be stationed there. He was killed by a roadside bomb. Too devastated and angry she left the UK and sat in her room back at her parents house in East Legon for a year and didn't get close to any man until that party night when she met Daniel. They snuck up to the host's bedroom and the result 9 months later was a baby boy. Daniel has been sending money and keeping in touch. He felt guilty about not having had made the effort to go back to visit his son. Part of him wasn't even sure it was his son. But he sent the support regardless. Osei had seen the lady a few times. He says the kid is definitely mixed-race and has Daniel's features. We will go there tomorrow. I asked Osei what happened to Peter, a flight attendant. After Daniel, Peter met a fellow British flight attendant, for Virgin Atlantic Airways. They entered a civil partnership and he moved to London and got a job as a train driver. As Peter got older, his sexuality changed over the years, he became more and more interested in women and moved back to Ghana, where he got married and had two kids, a son and a daughter.

It was 5.40pm. About an hour before Daniel's flight was due to land. We headed to the Aerostar bar and restaurant within walking distance from the terminals. This is a lovely semi-covered outdoor place among palm trees. We ordered chicken and Jollof rice with beer. I was absolutely starving and got hick-up ups from eating so fast.

My eyes suddenly went over to the bar where two tall white men were standing drinking beer. “And we don't have any ghosts here by the way, or I would think anywhere else for that matter. Do you think you saw one?” said Osei. I told him about JFK and Brussels. These guys are smart and seasoned killers. They would probably get killed themselves if they didn't deliver. Maybe they hacked into the airline system or my phone somehow. Both were supposed to be very secure, but who knows? Then men came towards the bar. Two massive guys in their early 40s and bodybuilders, or terminators. Crew cut blond, ice pale blue gray eyes, my heart started racing. I told Osei I wanted to leave now.. To my horror I heard them speak English with an American accent. Contracted killers ordered by my former employers, I thought! But they seemed totally oblivious to my presence. I placed my hands on my face to to think for a moment and when I removed my hands I found that Osei had walked over to the men and had just begun engaging in a conversation. He asked what brought them to Ghana and was told that they work for the United States government and were preparing for Vice President Pence's visit tomorrow, Ghana being the second country after Egypt on an African tour of eight African countries. Osei waved me over. I grabbed my bottle of water and headed over to the bar. I decided to check their reaction, perhaps this was a bit risky of me, but as we were not in the United States I decided to tell them a summary of what I had been through so far. I hoped they wouldn't try to arrest me and I assured them I was OK to remain here without trouble. I watched the men's reaction and they burst out laughing, “That's very funny you're not on our list but now that you mention it we should probably frisk you. Put your hands over your head and lay your weapons on the floor.” I started raising my arms. The guy next to me signaled with his hands “No no please I was just kidding.” I don't know what came over Osei who said they should “join us and he will show them where to go.” One of the men reached for some dollars and placed it on the counter, “That will be nice, tonight is our night off before our boss arrives tomorrow”. Then the men introduced themselves Andrew Nielsen and Curtis Smith of the United States Secret Service. Andrew showed me his badge. They have been here for a week doing various security checks, which is standard protocol ahead of the vice president's arrival in any country.

I got my phone out, hid it under the table and Googled “Vice President Pence Ghana.” TV3 News:

“The vice president of the United States of America rounds up talks in Cairo with the Arab League, after which he is scheduled to embark on an eight country sub-Saharan visit starting with Ghana tomorrow and finishing his tour in South Africa. The president's primary mission is to promote US-African trade as well as health care challenges, and he brings with him a number of businessmen and officials from select non governmental organizations.”

What the two guys said checked out fine to me. If they were secret service agents I would probably be safer with them and if they were not they would kill me anyway. After a couple of beers I was more relaxed. I looked around. The evening was Reggae themed. Lots of Jamaican flags, Jamaican rum and paintings of Bob Marley and other famous islanders I could see Osei was right in his spot. “This man is where a Jammie like me feels extra home” and ordered 4 large coconut-rum drinks The guys ordered a round. I tried some of the rum and it nearly knocked me out. The music playing right now at the bar was “No sorrow don't think about tomorrow. Live Life and be happy” by a Nigerian singer, DJ Spinall. It truly summed up what I should be doing. Tonight it was. We got light talking. Andrew told me they knew about me, that it was it is part of their job to know who any criminals or other hot people in the area are. I flagged up the moment I arrived, but they decided I was no threat to them or their president. They also knew I was on the red-eyed Wolves hit list. “Wow” I thought. I needed another drink. I was quite blown away. The mafia has a name, Red Eye Wolves! I asked if they had any here.

I was told by Andrew that he was in contact with his counterpart at the Russian FSB, a man they called Piotr. Despite the current frosty intra-country climate both nations maintained cooperation against such cancers in society as the mafia. Piotr had informed him that the Red Eyed wolves know I am not in Belgium and they definitely will want that laptop which I gave American FBI the laptop. They now have a $500,000 affiliation contract on my head, it was $100,000 when I left New York. “Affiliation contract?? What was on that Laptop”, I asked.

I got distracted for a moment by two pretty young ladies who were in the bar area. One of the ladies was clearly eying me up. Curtis noticed this too. I excused myself from the conversation and went up to order a drink, not to chat with any of them up just to give my eyes something... They probably have husbands or boyfriends. Curtis explained that mafias around the world have affiliate networks where they can pay affiliate members in most countries for a hit job. The closest affiliate here is an al-qaeda drug cell in northwestern Nigeria. And if I was to travel to say Hong Kong or Sweden there are affiliates there. Andrew gave me some history on the Red Eyed Wolves. During the late 1980s it was harder and harder to get drugs, though from South America through the Caribbean or Central America routes into the United States and Western Europe, which have always been the most lucrative markets for cocaine, heroin and cannabis. Cocaine comes from Northwest South America, heroin from Pakistan, Afghanistan and Southeast Asia, and marijuana from pretty much anywhere, though major production in Central America, inside the United States and some production in Afghanistan and South America. After the fall of the Iron Curtain and some semi-chaos in the former Communist countries, established criminals became established in some of these places and became drug transport hubs. One big crime syndicate called themselves the Red Eyed Wolves, vicious savages who killed anyone in their way, whether law enforcement or rivals or those who did not pay their deeds. Russia had most of its law and order restored by the early 2000s and most of the former Communist countries of the eastern block mentioned joined the European Union and the unified European response made it harder to operate, but they regrouped and also established themselves on the U.S. mainland.

Curtis ordered another beer and told me in greater detail what the CIA have learned about the Laptop I ha

nded

in to explain that the laptop was thought to contain encrypted delivery information to a majority of Red Eyed Wolves clients. I pulled out of of the jellybeans. “Candy or not?” I asked Curtis. He grabbed a napkin and pointed for me to place the “jellybean”, the device, on it.

“This ain't no jellybean. I sure am glad you didn't eat it. I remember

having

some of these in the collection of foreign agent devices we have obtained over the years. These are soviet-made radio activated chemical dispensers.”

He used a toothpick to turn the device over.

“How soon do symptoms of the nerve agents show ?” Andrew who also knew about the devices explained that it would be within 24 hours.

“Potential killers?”

”No the USSR never made a deadly poison, though it is known that after the break-up of the Soviet Union some rogue private interests attempted such modification. Who knows, maybe they succeeded? I am not aware of any in Russia, though if I

was, I

wouldn't be able to tell you.”

Andrew had also been studying these types of devices. The devices they had were green and red devices made to look just like jellybeans. The casing was designed in such a way that if you managed to open it, the contents would be dispensed immediately. They had tested and found that at a frequency of 190 MHz and a series of audio pulses around 1050 Hz they release their payload chemical.

I told them about how

I had

Natasha's laptop but that I hadn't been able to login to it. Curtis said he would try and find out about it.

I left to go out to the street to make a call to Daniel. He picked up, he had just landed and was just exiting the plane. He was very intrigued. He had in the meantime received a message from the former intern at the office. The intern mentioned that he had found a lot of the same jellybean looking devices in Simon's office. That was why he got fired when Simon found him picking up one of the chips. The men had to leave. Andrew tapped away on his phone. “Tell me again where you are staying. I will be back tomorrow morning, early with some information after I have tried to get hold of Piotr. We know that you are wanted by the government back home so I must officially caution you to return home to the United States as soon as possible.” He finished his drink and said “But unofficially what you do with the information I give you that's your choice and I know if you have a way to clear your name you should try it. I'll try to get you in touch with Piotr directly. Whatever you do from then on you can't tell us as we have to let the boys back home know. We will probably find out anyway by the time you get to Russia, which should be nicely timed, good for your sake.”

I wrote my room number and Hotel Accra city down on a napkin and handed it to Andrew. I have to figure out what's on those chips.

We shook their hands and then headed to the international arrivals exit of the terminal. A quarter of an hour passed, then I saw Daniel. Tired looking but his face lit up like a sun when he saw us. Osei rushed forward to hug his old pal. Daniel had a good flight and for the first time in weeks felt safe.

“I am so happy to be with two of my best friends, in a warm friendly country.” We got into the car, Daniel, in front of Osei as they were chatting away. On the way to the hotel Osei stopped by a pharmacy which was still open, “I need to get you guys something.”

Moments later he came back with a box that had an insect on it; I was a box of medications, Malaria prophylaxis, to stop me from getting Malaria, very common in this part of the world. Most tropical areas are rife with malaria carried by mosquitoes. It is especially dangerous for non-natives who have never been exposed. Malaria is devious in that the parasite has grown in the liver and doesn't hatch until 2-4 weeks after entering the body. Fortunately this Prophylaxis is nearly 100% effective if taken as directed. In the car I told him what the secret services guys had said about the chips and making our way to Russia somehow.

I think I need to find out more about what my bosses were up to and I know there is stuff going on in Russia I said.

“Let’s go to Labadi beach!” said Daniel.

He took over and started driving. Daniel has always loved driving. He stopped at a bakers. The minutes went. By now it was dark. He came out but we weren’t ready. He showed his hand and said: “Five more minutes!” After ten minutes he came out with a white paper box. We managed to navigate through most of the traffic and got to the beach by 7.45pm. We managed got tickets and went to sit down by the main beach bar. Osei got us seats upstairs. We had a great view over the beach. It was full of people, loud Afrobeats music streamed from both the main bar below and from a nearby bar. People were shooting fireworks and dancing out on the beach and a bit out into the water. Osei got a round of drinks and a large plate of Spicy chicken with fried Yams, spicy sauce and a large salad. I was very hungry as were the guys. We finished the food within minutes. Daniel opened the box and there was a nice big rectangular cake with “Happy 39th birthday George!! Much love.”

I was taken back, I had totally forgotten today was my birthday. “Let’s enjoy this moment and a toast for George!” Daniel raised his glass of champagne first followed by Osei. The cake was too big to finish but Daniel (who is known as the cake monster) wouldn’t let go of the 75% or so which was left of it and placed it back in the box for us to have it later. This was one of those moments you want to last. I closed my eyes and just felt a total sense of happiness. We left to go back. I felt the soft sand under my shoes. I normally didn’t like beach sand as it tends to get everywhere but this nice soft sand, still warm, I did not mind. Daniel walked off and was gone for some time and when he returned holding a couple of plastic bottles in his hand. I wasn't sure what it was. “Palm wine” he said. Locally produced. I liked the taste. Whitish and sweet. Daniel was getting drunk. He told me had bought some shots of hard liquor on he way from the stand. He had to sit down. I was so tired as was Daniel. His eyes were fixed on a stage of music nearby. I asked him what it was. By now he was more or less drunk but managed to say “That's Ragga dance-hall, see how they shake

their

butts. It is kinda sexual, d*

mn I

am getting straight at least for a moment!” Daniel changed his gaze to the sky and told me “See that half moon, notice anything ?” He asked me. I looked at it. I noticed it was indeed looking like a moon I don't recall. “It is horizontal!” I said. Daniel said that the closer we are to the equator the more horizontal the half moon becomes. I don't remember going to bed.

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