INFAMOUS TRADE by Andrej Koymasky (C) 1998 - 2002 written the 20th of July, 1995 translated by the author English text kindly revised by Jer
USUAL DISCLAIMER
"INFAMOUS TRADE" is a gay story, with some parts containing graphic scenes of sex between males. So, if in your land, religion, family, opinion and so on this is not good for you, it will be better not to read this story. But if you really want, or because YOU don't care, or because you think you really want to read it, please be my welcomed guest.
TWELFTH
Manhattan
At ten thirty-five of the morning after his clash with Kin Shin and his body guard, Black was sitting on a green leather armchair in Silvan York's office. He had a cup of black coffee in one hand, a rolled up copy of the New York Times in the other and was looking at the Treasury agent. This one was at the telephone and was receiving dressing down from somebody on the other end of the line.
His problems came from the fact that Kevin M. Black, the vice-marshal of recent appointment entrusted to him, did thrash up a diplomat of the South Korean Embassy.
At a certain point, Silvan, his face red, threw a black glance from his desk towards Black, who smiled and raised his cup in a toast before drinking a sip of coffee. Kevin got the impression that Silvan didn't appreciate his gesture. The Treasury agent squeezed his eyes and started to wrap the telephone wire around his big hand. At the end Silvan hung up the phone and called his secretary on the intercom, ordering her to answer to all calls. Then leaning the palms of his hands on his desk, stared at his fingers hardened by years of football. A career during which he reached the record in the Cotton Bowl for the number of matches he played in the role of defense.
At the University of Texas, Silvan York, besides playing two years on the best team in the American Championship, also graduated with high marks, above all thanks to his photographic memory. Unhappily the three operations he had to undergo on his right shoulder excluded him from the National Football League, This did not upset him too much, as the career of a professional player seldom lasted more than five years.
Instead of following in his father and two brothers' footsteps, working in a bank, Silvan, who thought of himself to be one of the few football stars also gifted with a brain, decided to build a position for himself in Washington, working on the staff of a Texas Senator.
Thanks to this experience he saw from close up the world of the Secret Service. As a branch of the Treasury Department, they did much more than protecting the President and his vice. They also investigated federal crimes like the counterfeiting of money, government titles, laundering of dirty money and more. They also watched for menaces against foreign diplomats in the U.S.A. A job much more interesting that a career in a bank. Another aspect of that job that Silvan appreciated was the strong feeling of comradeship among the agents. It was a feeling that took him back to the camaraderie of the football team. There were naturally also collateral advantages, having the government behind him. For instance, he could enjoy great power without having to be part of a political office or a lobby.
It had been the senator, a lanky man with bushy eyebrows, with thin eyes and lips, who warned him of the risks one could run working for the government. "Now you are working for the politicians. With all the power they have, it would be stupid thinking that a day or another they could not use it against you. Like LBJ told me once, "serving people who can do anything they want, can't get you anything good."
In the Manhattan office, for a while, neither Silvan nor Kevin said a word.
Then the Treasury agent leaned on the back of the turning armchair and spoke, his face turned toward the ceiling, "The Justice Department, the State Department and the District Attorney's office are breaking my balls because of what you did with that Korean diplomat. So now it is up to me to give you a good telling off." He lowered his eyes to Black, "It is the types like you who send everything to hell. You presume you know everything, while we don't understand shit. I cautioned you to go smoothly, but it seems that an official warning is needed to convince you. Well, my dear city boy, if you want to play smart, you should not be amazed if people kick you in the ass. For too long now you're acting like a fool."
"I guess I should be worried, now..." Kevin said with a crafty smile.
"Listen to me, piece of shit -- even your mates think you overdid, this time. Your district commander, the bosses at Police Plaza are just longing to fuck you in the ass. And it's not even noon."
Kevin shoved him his copy of the Times, "Anyway, if you want to know, I was not drunk and it was not me that started the brawl. Here they printed a lot of bullshit,"
"Your problem became MY problem. Let me explain it. I don't give a shit about who started the scuffle. You are in a bad position and this puts me also in a bad position. A vice marshal who beats the shit of a foreigner diplomat! Damn! Didn't you understand a shit of what I said to you? I ordered you to concentrate on Firestone and about the death of two undercover agents. Forget Terry What's-his-name, I told you..."
"You also recommended I stay away from Yung Chem. Anyway his family name is Dos Santos. What has all this to do with Kim Shin?"
"Don't you understand anything, boy? I think the situation is escaping you. There is an advantage to knowing the essential details, so before starting to talk about how often you miss your goal, let me explain how things are. Our country spends more than three billion dollars each year to defend South Korea. North Korea is building a plant for the recycling of nuclear material. The rumor is that there is an agreement between the two Koreas for reunification. So what can we poor God fearing men do? Only try to remain in the game and to do that we need friends. Whether we like it or not, we have to be on good relations with the South Koreans. And we can start by not roughing up their diplomats, for instance. Do you understand?"
Kevin put down his coffee cup on edge of the table and crossed his legs, "What I understand is that a man deliberately lies, and is mocking me from the start. What I see is a man cutting my legs to stop me from creating..."
"Detective Black, your personal story says that you are a lonely and unhappy man. And unhappy people often think too little or too much..."
"I see it in a different way. I'm not the unhappy one. It is the world that is rotten." Kevin said with a smile.
Silvan also laughed, "For a man in your position, you should worry a lot more. On the contrary you are behaving like Inspector Callaghan and this just confirms the theories of the liberals that cops are just prick-heads. You didn't give a shit even about the orders of our government, and this is not exactly in your interest, I assure you. So, why you are sitting there, happier than a pig in shit? Do you know something that we don't? Or did you just go crazy?"
Kevin leaned against the back of his armchair, his hands crossed behind his neck, "Last night I was held by the police in Alberto's office, until they checked my badge and phoned to confirm it was good. My colleague came to bring me my raincoat. I was sitting on Alberto's desk so I put my raincoat on his agenda file. When the check of my documents was over, they told me I could leave..."
"You left with your raincoat and his agenda. At times I ask myself who made you so..."
"Back home, the first thing I did was to check the names in that agenda. Alberto had in it the telephone numbers of Kim Shin, that of the Korean Embassy, his home, and Seoul. He had also several telephone numbers in Seoul, but all without a name near them. I checked to see if one could correspond to that of Yung Chem. Then there were other names, terribly interesting names... that of Dan Firestone and Russell Fort, then telephone numbers of half the world, France, England..."
"Who's Fort?"
"An ex policeman who knows Firestone very well and who has big debts with the gambling loan-sharks. The little friend of Susan, who works in the police archives, with the computer and that, among other things, takes care of the profiles. Firestone makes checks about Yung Chem's clients, and protects Fort. And now it's evident that he is connected with Alberto Sacchi... In my opinion it is not just about the washing of dirty money, in my opinion there is something rotten. Something bigger, good Lord, I can't understand, I don't think it is drugs, but... I want to discover it."
"According to your references, you are able to deal with people. With whom do you intend to start, since you can't start with the Koreans?"
"With Fort. Fort is a gambler and I think he gathers money to finance his vice in two different ways -- selling undercover agent identities and thanks to his mysterious trips to Mexico... The end of the line must be there..."
"Good, Kevin. Let's go to take Fort and nail him with the question of undercover agents and we make him spill the beans about his trips to Mexico and his relationship with Firestone..."
"We have to also take Susan Scudder at the same time -- that woman for love would do anything. It should be her who sold our two boys to Fort..."
"Did you talk about those suspects with somebody in the police?"
"No, when they entrusted me with this case they told me to trust nobody. We knew that the leak happened on the inside. So I thought it was way better to be wary. Firestone still has friends in the Corp. When I'll move against him, I have to do it without fail, I won't get a second chance."
Silvan took the letter opener and slowly patted it on his palm. "It could be a good idea to throw a rope to Fort and offer him a way out. We could possibly persuade him that it would be convenient for him to confess. I shouldn't tell you this, but I don't want you to leave here thinking that I used you. I never did and never will do that. But also a cowboy like you should learn to respect the rules sooner or later. You can't always do things your own way, and charge forward with your head lowered like a bull. There are occasion, believe me, where you have to follow the line that others laid down. And about what concerns that kid you are looking for, that Terry How's-his-name, I didn't twiddle my thumbs... Before Chem killed our undercover agent we had information that a certain Mister Fox, and Englishman..."
The telephone rang. Silvan took the receiver and brawled, "Damn, Nina, I told you to take all the ca..." then knit his forehead and looking to Black said, "I see. Yes, he's here," and handed the receiver to Kevin who recognized the signs -- something bad had happen and, on a scale of one to ten, had to be above six.
Silvan had the look of someone who would much rather be some place else. If he was sure that it was bad news, Kevin had only to ask himself -- how much and who had been touched, this time? He listened for a few seconds, then closed his eyes. The news could not be worse. Much above level six.
All he said was, "Oh Christ! I've got to run." then gave the receiver to Silvan. "He said there's a car is waiting for me outside. They shot my colleague, Ellen Dekker. They don't know if she'll make it or not. I've got to go."
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
London
Thirty-three hours after the robbery at the security depository, Rowland Preston was sitting in the waiting room of Heathrow airport, sipping whisky from a silver hip flask. Twenty minutes until boarding time for the eleven 'o clock flight to New York. Twenty minutes farther from the meeting with Yung Chem. Also the Korean would be in New York. And he had to face him, and explain to him that he'd lost his eight million dollars. The same eight millions he accepted in custody and that had now disappeared with all his most valuable belongings, and his diaries describing in detail all his activities. Of all those who used him to wash their dirty money, only that of Chem was in his safety box -- he should find the way to give it back to Chem, and also rapidly, he knew well.
Rowland, scared and confused, contacted Scotland Yard in hopes that the robbers forgot something, only to come to know that in his box nothing at all remained. Those bastards didn't leave even a paper clip. He didn't know if it was better that his diaries were in the robbers' hands, or if it would have been better they left them inside his box -- if Scotland Yard saw and read then, it would have been infinitely worse. But now, in whose hands would they end up?
Some of the other victims of the robbery refused to make a report or to discuss with the police about the content of their boxes, and hence about their activities, preferring to keep some information far from the authorities. Rowland was so desperate about the loss of his diaries that he would have asked the devil himself, just to have them back.
He also thought about canceling his trip to New York, but this could be interpreted as the fact he didn't intend to refund Chem's money, or even worst, his involvement in the robbery. Avoiding the Korean meant to confess a guilt he didn't have, and this would not allow him to live for long. He had to contact him at once, and to try to settle everything in the best of ways -- giving him for free the little Terry, giving him all the money he got from the auction, calming him down...
While he was putting the flask to his lips, his hand trembled. For the moment the only thing he could think was the well deserved fame for cruelty of Chem, especially if he suspected that somebody was trying to cheat him. He would of course accuse him of the loss, exactly like General Kin Jong accused Chem.
The thought of Chem's wrath provoked atrocious spasms in his stomach, accompanied by a weak sensation in his hands and legs. Fear swept all his energy away from him. He swallowed another big sip of whisky desperately trying to convince himself that Chem would not kill him when they would meet in New York. That he would give him an opportunity to find the money and to save his life.
Too late he was aware he too thoughtlessly passed over the homicidal manias of Chem, only because it didn't concern him directly. He closed his eyes to the unpleasant truth and now he had to pay its price. When he heard that Chem killed one of his young waiters, a Filipino, after torturing him for a long while, cutting him in small pieces so that he didn't die too quickly, only because the young man tried to kiss Elton when this was his boy, Rowland just smiled...
Rowland's first reaction to the news of the robbery had been to withdraw in his bedroom, ignore all telephone calls and to drain a bottle of whisky, just to become insensible to everything. Yung Chem was not the only one to fear, he feared also what could happen to him if Chem and the others named in his diaries came to know about the existence of those papers. Rowland's fear had been so strong that he even seriously considered the possibility of suicide. Then he decided that killing himself would be too cowardly a solution to this nightmare of a situation.
Thomas. God only knows where he could be at that moment! It's not that he would be any help in such an emergency, that good for nothing. Thomas was an eternal adolescent, unscrupulous and foolhardy, absorbed only in the seeking new and unusual sensations. At the moment he had to be engaged in his imaginary business that was going to make him rich, that poor mug! But if he were here, his terribly erotic presence, his unique way to make love, could give him some relief - comfort. Could help him distract himself a little. He missed him as never before.
Crying uncontrollably like a weakling, Rowland placed another log in his bedroom fireplace. How the hell could he escape all of this? He always saw himself as a unique unequaled person, so much above the masses. The danger he was now running was a brutal demonstration that, everything considered, he was exactly like all the others. Lying on his bed he continued to look at the fire. The sparkles of the flames projected like a crimson aura on the floor. This was a comforting sensation that pushed him to serious reflections about his life.
Once he was a nice and perfectly normal teen in Clapham, a London suburb. To start him up the road on an unrestrained sexuality had been the Reverend William Cobden of the Anglican Church. A forty year old vicar with a face like a full moon, he was a secret pedophile. Even if Cobden had lured him into the way of lust, Rowland's hunger for sex, showed him to be a voracious pupil. In a short time, he took the reins of the perverse game where, among various things, the boy offered himself in obscene poses to Cobden's camera. He even pushed the priest to find more boys to get even more daring pictures, where he fucked with his occasional mates found by the reverend.
Cobden was just the first of a long list of men with whom the young Rowland indulged in pleasures of the flesh. One of his uncles, a police agent, an art merchant were just some of the mature men who enjoyed his graces. What made Rowland different from all the other boys addict to sex with adults of their same gender, was his refusal to see himself in the role of the victim of sexual abuse, as a conquered, seduced boy.
From the beginning he was sure that sex between a boy and an adult was a good and right thing. The kid got pleasure from the possibility to exercise a power over men who often were the pillars of society and that at times were old enough to be his grandfathers. He loved making them beg him for sex, imposing his conditions, directing them at his will before allowing them to fuck him.
Finally, the blatant sexually behavior of Rowland became too embarrassing and his father, the forty-two years old manager of a pub, threw him out the day after his fifteen birthday. In just one week he became the lover, all but faithful, of a forty-four year old gangster from the West End. His contempt for convention ended when Rowland was only twenty-two.
He met Roger Lesley, an athletic forty year old man, who was the director of a racing car factory in Park Lane. Passionate and affectionate, Lesley, was a man of success, strong and gentle. He conquered the drifting boy, tamed him, and Rowland, for the first time, fell passionately in love with somebody. For his Roger, he became a honest boy. He never cheated on him. He found in him strength and gentleness, safety, shelter, warmth and passion. He could desire nothing more.
Two years after they became lovers, they moved to Cape Town, where Roger took command of a branch of a big American car company. The move had been traumatic for Roger's sister. Finola was a thin bony woman, with thin lips, who controlled the charity foundation started by their grandfather -- the Lesley Foundation. Deeply devoted to her brother, the woman knew he was gay, so she accepted Rowland with some coolness but without hostility. Rowland in his own mind suspected that the cause of the alcoholic problems of the unmarried and demure Finola were based on a carnal, unsatisfied desire towards her brother. For love of Roger, Finola and Rowland always treated each other in a civilized way. Anyway, Rowland thought that the truce would last only as long as Roger tacitly imposed it.
In Cape Town Rowland continued to love and respect Roger. He never cheated on him -- the man knew perfectly well about his young lover's past, and accepted it. He also knew that's exactly what it was, just a past. The man totally wrapped him in his love, which made Rowland feel the center of the man's life. In bed, Roger was a passionate lover, open to anything new. He conceded to Roger all the pleasure he desired. Rowland in exchange, more and more in love, reserved a fidelity he never granted to any other man in his life. When he was with Roger he didn't even feel the desire to use his ability to seduce and dominate other men. Also, Roger was the first man that Rowland didn't try to dominate.
While Rowland carried on a sober life, the same could not be said about their friends in Cape Town. For instance Alberto, a gay Italian restaurateur that Roger met in a bar on shore. Alberto regularly invited them to parties where partner swapping happened, group orgies, but the couple always refused those invitations. They were not interested in sex with runaway boys, white or black, that Alberto gathered in from the roads and hosted in his home as long as they sexually appealed to his guests. And then he threw them again out on the road. To fuck a kid, Alberto assured, is a magic elixir to keep a man young. This statement scandalized Roger and left Rowland indifferent .
Alberto started to have sex when he was twelve. He became the willing lover of his mother's lover, a thirty two year old man. When his mother was not at home, he always teased the man, until they merrily ended up in bed and the man fucked him for a good long time. Alberto loved feeling the big and strong hot body on top of him to feel in his little hole his hard and long tool. Knowing he was the master of the man's pleasure. And now, he loved to be on the other side, to fuck kids at his will, to have even three or four of them in his bed, ready to please him in every way he fancied. And he liked to look at his friends using his kids for their pleasure.
For six years Roger and Rowland lived happily together. That comfort of wealth and peace came to an end the day Roger decided it was no longer possible to remain indifferent to the apartheid system.
Against their white friends and his work mates opinions, Roger openly supported the strikes by the black workmen and the radicals of the African National Congress lead by Nelson Mandela. He also took part in a demonstration in the city of Shaperville to protest against the laws restricting the movements of black people in the areas inhabited by the white minority. The police repressed that demonstration with unheard of brutality, killing seventy people. Also Roger had been hit by a bullet, getting a light wound in his leg.
Immediately after this incident, the ANC, the Communist party and other groups of blacks, were officially excluded by the law. The government acted with an even greater brutality against those who opposed apartheid. Even if he was scared for what could happen to his Roger, Rowland admired the courage and determination of his man in manifesting his ideals.
"South-Africa is a wonderful land, but without a future. There is too much hate, and hate brings only mishaps and accidents, remember my words." Roger told him.
Just one month later, Roger's prediction came to knock at their door. On a rainy night a man dressed like a priest went to their house and rang the bell. When Roger went to open the door, he shot him three times in his chest, straight into his heart. Roger died in Rowland's arms, without recovering his senses. A few days later, an anonymous voice threatened the young man on the telephone, ordering him to leave South-Africa in forty-eight hours if he didn't want to follow his "lover's" fate.
As he took the threat seriously, Rowland went to see Alberto. The Italian really did help him in that terrible time. He took care to organize the immediate cremation of Roger, and Rowland's flight to London with his man's ashes.
But Roger's business was not too simple to settle. It was found out that Roger left a will leaving Rowland as his sole heir. But after paying the inheritance taxes, several outstanding taxes, some debts and the installments of a bank loan that Roger had and the funeral expenses; he found he had to abandon the life of luxury life which his lover had made him accustomed to. After selling almost all his estate, there remained only enough to survive a few months, less than a year.
In London, Finola, Roger's sister, unexpectedly showed that she cared very much about Rowland's fate. She gave him a job in the Lesley Foundation and also found him a small apartment, for free, in Bayswater. Their sorrow drew them closer and made then forget about the past; their hidden grudges. Eighteen months later Finola passed away. Rowland suffered because with the death of the woman his last tie with Roger was lost. But Finola also left a will so that Rowland became the director of the Lesley Foundation. The Foundation started to become a modest financial success, good enough to pat him a reasonable salary, but at least he could now live decently.
Rowland didn't feel like becoming the lover of another old dirty man, so he seriously took care to solve the Foundation's problems and to raise its level. Anyway it was difficult to find the capital to finance such an enterprise, People had no difficulty giving away old clothing or used objects they no longer needed, but contributing cash was entirely another matter.
Two months after Finola's death, Rowland learned that Alberto would pass through London on his vacation. The man had a favor to ask him -- would Rowland be so kind as to launder for him a certain sum of money, twenty thousand dollars, to be precise, through his charity institute? It would be an easy job, and nobody would know about it. He could keep the interest and use it for some good deeds...
Rowland was troubled, not so much by the Italian's request, but the possibility to handle so much money and to earn a profit with so little effort. A couple of bank transactions and it was done, The question of the illegality of the operation never touched his mind. He was three months late with rent payments, and the landlord, a hideously fat and stinky man from Cyprus, had given him only twenty-four hours to pay, before demanding from him sexual services as a guarantee. Rowland found Albert's proposal infinitely more enticing.
The Italian, overjoyed, told him that it was just the beginning -- as the racial conflicts in South-Africa were reaching towards a logical and dramatic conclusion, it was necessary to transfer all the money that he illegally accumulated in that country. During the following weeks Alberto intended to recycle several hundred thousand dollars through Rowland's charity institution. Afterwards he would move to Saigon, where he had some friends -- in that land, the war between the South and North created several opportunities for a good profit. If Rowland correctly handled the funds coming from South-Africa, Alberto would also send him money to launder from Asia.
Rowland gotten fed up managing the Institute and was almost thinking about getting rid of it. It was not a very profitable activity and the kids got on his nerves. But in the light of Alberto's proposal, he reconsidered his disgust for philanthropy. The Italian, finding him so ready to cooperate, suggested to him different ways to get more money from the Foundation.
Alberto had a friend in New York, a French psychiatrist he met a few months earlier. Recently, Doctor Jacques Roux, a psychologist-psychiatrist, had been forced to leave his tenure in a small Canadian hospital after a sexual scandal that involved a recently hired young male nurse. So Roux moved to New York, where he opened his studio in Manhattan, specializing in the therapy of males having problems accepting their sexuality. A part of the treatment consisted in making his patients couple with men with a strong will, of course wealthy ones, and who naturally paid Jacques, in secret. To "heal" his patients.
But Alberto confided to Rowland that this kind of men were often more at ease with adolescents than with adult males. They were people ready to pay good money to find the right boy to submit to their desires. Was he interested in taking part in this kind of business, an operation that would be highly profitable? Rowland invited Alberto to the Ritz for tea. An in-depth discussion followed about the way the Foundation could become a more profitable activity than it was at that moment.
So, the Foundation started to supply male boys overseas and the sales were masked as adoptions. One of the clients was a high official of Unicef, who made the Foundation get official recognition that not only facilitated the movement of the boys, but also increased the stock of boys the Foundation had to adopt, from the war or poverty zones, at Unicef's expenses, of course. Business spread like wildfire. And Jacques conditioned the boys and youths so that they were happy to become sexual slaves, to be sold and bought -- they were the best, that is the most handsome and docile. Rowland then had the idea to sell them at auction and his profits increased even more. He then meet Chem...
Now, in the waiting lounge of Heathrow International Airport, Rowland was meditating with his flask in his hand. Behind dark glasses, his eyes took on the crystal tone of those of a hawk. A cold smile crossed his lips. The thought he conceived was a challenge worthy of being tried, if he wanted to continue living the high life. He would risk everything in a single chance -- if he won, or he killed himself, it would be settled.
He stood up, closed the flask and looked around for a telephone. He could feel his blood rushing to his head. The excitement that was seizing him, had something sensual. And at the same time he felt a sensation of relief that helped to calm him down.
A young Arab with a neatly trimmed beard, wearing a kefish over classic western clothes, let him pass with an excessively kind gesture, while looking at him with lusty eyes. A glance that at any other time would have Rowland shivering with pleasure, but now left him completely indifferent. Turning his back, he went to the duty-free shop. He started to walk more rapidly while he was inspecting all the details of his plan to save his skin. He had to immediately call Dan Firestone -- he would give him any sum, to kill Ying Chem. He had to eliminate Chem before this one killed him. It was necessary to go on the attack. It would be him to put fire to the powder. Dan killed people for anybody who paid him. Why wouldn't he do it once more for him? And for a very good sum of money. He could kill the Korean when he showed at his home to finally put his hands on Terry. In that way, moreover, he could sell the boy at his auction starting from two hundred thousand dollars, and he would for sure get a higher sum than that he agreed with Chem, and he would give all to Dan. Certainly twice what Firestone could earn from the projected sale to Chem.
Yes, it was a good sum for the help he was asking him, but in any case, with his life in game, no price was too high. And he knew that Dan needed lot of money to assist his lover. Moreover, he wouldn't have to sell all of his estate as he would have to do if Chem demanded from him a fast refund of his money. He would not lose his shop, nor his apartment, and neither to empty all his accounts in the various banks anyway risking not to be able to put together the eight million dollars he would have to give back.
He had just solved what at first seemed to him an insurmountable problem, and his life would again find order. He could continue to live comfortably and continue in his profits without a problem. He didn't need Chem, he had already started a formidable organization.
At the duty-free shop, a young Sikh pointed him toward the telephone. Without thanking him, Rowland ran headlong in the direction pointed out, praying in his heart he could find Dan immediately. He would at once communicate with him. They had agreed he would go to the airport to pick him up, but Rowland was in hurry to talk with him and he wanted to spend the hours of the flight with his heart in peace.
He had to wait for an incredibly thin old woman to finish her call -- he felt homicidal instincts. She was making him lose very precious time. At last the ugly old woman ended her conversation and hung up the phone. Rowland seized it, inserted his credit card and rapidly dialed the number of Jacques house -- he guessed that he would find Dan at his lover's bedside, at that time.
CONTINUES IN CHAPTER THIRTEENTH
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