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In Singapore, it was the next day, 1:00 A.M. Marcel Caravaggio was entwined with his mistress, Jeannette. He had taken her out for a celebratory dinner. So far he had made over one point three million dollars on his California real estate casualty company puts and he expected the trade to move further in his favor. Only then would he exercise the puts and realize his profits. Last he heard, it was raining still, raining down catastrophe. The news reporters had been almost trembling with excitement: rainfall measured in feet not inches, landslides, floods, horror, disaster. All great for the share price. For deflating the share price.

It took some time for the ringing of the bell to register. When Marcel did awaken fully, he was furious. He pulled on his silk robe, checked the peephole, saw two uniformed policemen and a man with an immaculate turban standing at the door.

“Open up Mr. Caravaggio,” said the man. “I heard your feet slapping on the marble. I hear your breathing.”

Marcel was taken into custody that night. He was charged with complicity in a terrorist act. No bail allowed. His accounts were frozen. He lived on three meager meals a day in Changi Prison. Jeannette, ever astute, moved on.