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dollars?”
    “Are you feeling all right? Would you like a glass of water?”
    “No, thanks, I’m OK. It’s just that... I think something’s...”
    Before he could finish the sentence, his phone rang. He looked at the same words on the display: “Withheld”. He answered on the third ring.
    “Hello?”
    “Have you received the money, Mr. Lae?”
    “Who is this? Are you the one who...?”
    “Relax, my friend. All in good time... I’ve already told you that.”
    “Hang on. You again? But how ...?”
    “I’m waiting for you. If you want to carry on with your search, this is the time to do it. Tell me if you want the information I have.”
    “What have I got to do?”
    “Central Park. Twenty minutes.”
    He hung up without waiting for an answer.
    “Is everything all right, sir?”
    “Oh, yes. I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ve got unfinished business to attend to.”
    “Of course. As requested, I have the briefcase prepared. Just one moment.”
    He went to the desk, bent over and returned holding an attaché case.
    “There you are. Two million, fresh from the mint.”
    “There’s... there’s two million dollars in here?”
    “Yes. Did I misunderstand? Should there be more?”
    “No, no. This is fine. Thank you very much,” replied Norman firmly, disguising his true feelings and trying to sound as if dealing with the unexpected was part and parcel of his daily round.
    “Goodbye, Mr....?”
    “Diesel. George Diesel. At your service.”
    Norman turned to leave, almost afraid the manager would change his mind and ask him to give the booty back, or realize a mistake had been made. He wouldn’t have to work another day for the rest of his life, he thought, with that amount of money. He closed the door behind him, and just as he was about to walk down the stairs, the secretary’s voice stopped him in his tracks. He froze for a second, then turned towards the woman with the sheepish look of a man caught with his fingers in the jam pot.
    “Excuse me, but you have to sign a receipt.”
    Norman relaxed his face muscles; a slight smile played on his lips for yet another unexpected triumph.
    “Naturally,” he replied, mentally heaving a sigh of relief.
    He picked up a pen from her desk and was just about to sign when he noticed his bank balance written on the sheet of paper below the withdrawal. There were too many zeros to take in, especially when the reader’s vision is blurred by disbelief. Norman read the account number. It was accurate: it was his. The mistake was probably bigger than he thought. The last deposit was fifty million. The last withdrawal was two million. The final total at the bottom was thirty-five, followed by a trail of zeros. He managed to count nine, but there were too many for him to comprehend the full magnitude.
     

Chapter 7
     
    Dustin was watching two youths arguing over a ball. He had watched a number of matches, but had never understood the true nature of the game. Reading between the provisional lines of the unfolding story of a match, he sensed the calming effect this kind of recreation might have, but when he analyzed the behavior more thoroughly, he realized that what happened between two rivals was a war. The final result was not, as might be assumed, the feeling of peace that sharing a passion should produce, but simply the end of a war: one won and the other lost. Everything man did merely led to that single, irrefutable fact, pure and simple: the supremacy of one individual over another, glory versus annihilation, physical and mental. The strong ruled those who believed in teamwork. There were no rules. Their real objective was to obtain supremacy and uncontested and irreversible control over the weak. Whatever the cost and whatever it took. He had gone over the story time and again, grasping at straws in an effort to find signs of good will. But all he found was destruction and discouragement. Human beings continued to survive thanks to one pure and unbiased