His voice was soft, as if drifting from a distant place.
An official leaned in closer.
"Tell who?"
Arafat's eyes shifted slightly.
"Tell the Mexicans..."
He didn't finish.
12 PM, Moscow outskirts, that villa.
The boss sat in that large chair, holding a glass of vodka.
The fire in the fireplace burned fiercely, his back was warm.
The phone rang.
He picked it up.
"Boss, the Middle East exploded."
The boss nodded.
"I know."
The voice on the other end was filled with barely contained excitement.
"The Squid Man attacked Gaza, Arafat is dying, the Mexican Embassy was bombed. Victor and Shamir are already arguing."
The boss smiled.
It was a light smile.
The "Principal's" chess game had finally come to this point.
He stood up and walked to the window.
Outside, the snow in Moscow had melted, the sunlight shone on the muddy ground, dazzlingly bright.
