Published by BooksForABuck.com at Smashwords
Copyright Michael Paulson, 2013
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On a rainy evening in early August Yu-tung Cheng’s chauffeur-driven Mercedes rolled along Carrer de la Barca outside of Port Bou, Spain. In the dimly-lit rear seat, two men were conversing in Spanish. Mr. Cheng was a gaunt Chinese about sixty years of age. He had a shaved head, and sunken cheeks within a waxy face. His thick, round spectacles perched upon a broad blunt nose. He was dapperly dressed in a gray suit, gray boots and a white shirt. A gray pearl mounted to the head of a gold pin decorated the pink, silk cravat at his throat. The tainted sweetness of opium hung about him like rancid candy.
“You’re asking a great deal of money, Shkarov.” Cheng tilted his head back as he spoke, the words wheezing laboriously from his throat as if on a choking whisper. “A million Euros, by anyone’s standard, is a fortune.”