Christmas Day, Jerman Villa, Somewhere near Geneva. 

It was a big villa in an isolated place, nearly seventy kilometres from Geneva. At first glance, one would think it was carved out of mountain. The stream down the hill behind the villa was split in two. The house was situated in a picturesque location - black and green fir trees coated with snow, and the red brick structure of the villa stood between frozen waterfalls on both sides, and rope bridges on the ice. Two helicopters were stationed in the garage that was in one corner. Even from a distance, the military green of the helicopters was quite apparent, and no attempts were made to camouflage them.

From the looks of it, the villa in those surroundings appeared to be a desolated one that was not lived in for ages, but the exterior, by certain magic retained its original glory. Behind the helicopters was the door to the parking area that was really carved into the mountain. There were rows of high-end automobiles with drivers dressed in crisp white outfits. Although none of the cars had moved out in the last twenty-four hours, and were not expected to during the rest of the day either, a new set of drivers came to take charge of the cars every four hours.

About half a mile away from the villa, an industrial shed camouflaged by the mountains and snow housed four powerful diesel generators that provided electricity to keep the villa and its residents warm. Above the shed, another cave was cut into the mountain that had an oil storage facility to store one million litres of diesel. The generators’ manufacturer deployed a technical crew of wenty to work round the clock in six hour shifts. They earned allowances that were nearly ten times their regular wages.

Inside the villa, on the first floor, there was a big dining room where four people controlling the business of artilleries that are supplied to all countries were meeting. Weapons ranging from pistols and crude swords to missiles and components of nuclear reactors were handled by them depending on the customer and customer’s dependence on the supply.

Jules Borg, who was hosting the party, was a bit anxious. In fact, he was trying to arrange this get together for nearly one month and was eager to play his final game. In his eighties, he was the oldest of the four associates but expected respect from the others, not due to his age, but for his genius. He often fails miserably in getting acknowledgement for his efforts towards identifying new opportunities, and creating new ones when none exist. The other three, being inventive in their own way, were equally arrogant and enjoyed his discomfort. It doesn’t mean they cause any harm to his business, but they indulge in provoking him. And the more they incite him the better results he delivered, fostering their approach towards him.

Chowchow, the small Chinese man measuring a little more than four feet from all sides, pushed himself deep into the cushions of the sofa, stretching his feet onto the table before him. His belly sagged to the side, and jiggled whenever he moved. A plate containing an assortment of seeds was placed on his belly and in his right hand he held a long mug full of green tea. His left hand was holding a long Cuban cigar that he puffs now and then. For every other puff, he lit it again using the lighter that was chained to his wrist. He pushed his cap down and his goggles up and it was difficult for Jules Borg to identify whether he was listening intently or sleeping deeply. He was lying there for nearly three hours while Jules was trying to discuss something serious. Jules suspected Chowchow to be of Korean origin - North Korea, to be particular.

Opposite to him was Ramirez Gonzalez from Peru. He couldn’t tell himself whether he was Spanish or Portuguese. He really was opposite to Chowchow in physique and behaviour as well. At six feet three inches, he was the tallest amongst the lot. With his lean body, sparkling eyes, sharp moustache turned slightly upwards, and dressed in tailor-made suits, he was a hit with ladies, and he never tried to win many friends of opposite sex. He was talkative and when he held a woman’s hands, piercing her eyes with his own, and spoke his heart out, she would end up in his bed, unless her husband interfered in time. In this company, Gonzalez got really bored. He even expressed for half an hour how dull the programme was in the frigid country, where only source of heat was the room heater. He smoked only paper-rolled cigarettes. Though a long process, this has a charm with women who were mesmerised with the way he rolls the paper and sticks it after, before offering it to them. Though the tobacco he uses was not so refined and produces tears in their eyes on the first puff, the tender way in which he wiped the tears from their eyes made the situation romantic, and the lady would go on smoking, albeit feeling heavily uncomfortable with smoke. Presently, Gonzalez was playing a porn game on his sleek cell phone, singing in some language that none in the room understood.

The last one of the quartet, Sami Suleiman, was a bald man who never worried about his hair as his head was always covered under a keffiyeh, the traditional headgear of the Arabs. He claimed to belong to some royal Arab family, but he was not clear on where his family originated from. Contrary to all rules of his religion, he was a chain smoker and a heavy drinker. And his appetite was also illustrious as he won several eating competitions whenever there was a gathering, either personal or business-related. He was of medium height with a small protrusion in the middle, and looked like a normal person. With his smile and politeness he wins friends easily at any place. He was as comfortable in the five star hotels of Paris as he was along the roadside eateries of Nigeria.

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