money player

Singapore.

In the coffee shop of the Raffles Hotel, the shadows of palm trees sweep across the mosaic floor tiles, and the air is filled with the faint aroma of coffee and the lingering scent of cigars.

Grace Sassoon gently pinched the handle of the white porcelain cup with her fingertips. A small cup of black coffee sat untouched on the corner of the table, but her gaze was fixed on the open investment prospectus. She rarely even raised her eyelashes, as if the surrounding gentlemen's chatter and the waiters' quiet steps were all irrelevant to her.

Dean has a subsidiary, Carl, which specializes in venture capital. They are currently interested in investing in Golden Seasons and Prince Enterprises. This interest was not proposed by Carl's manager, John Herbert, but by Dean's two major shareholders, Erin Jomondley and Judy.

The Golden Seasons Trading Company had already quietly grown into the world's largest smuggling group, operating in the shadows with a complex and interconnected network of influence spanning the globe.

Its true profitability and its grand strategic layout have always been kept secret. Unless one is in the core of the board of directors, outsiders have no way of knowing anything about it, let alone understanding its true size and methods.

In essence, the Golden Company was not an ordinary trading company, but rather a vehicle for the interests of the British Royal Navy, the Royal Police, and the Commonwealth colonial bureaucracy in the Far East.

Adam's motives for establishing Prince Enterprises are actually quite easy to figure out, but few outsiders can see through it. At its core, this company is the carrier of the US military's interests in the Far East.

Grace agreed with Carl's investment in Golden Seasons Trading Company, but disagreed with investing in Prince Enterprises. Although investing in Prince Enterprises would likely yield substantial returns, Adam might not agree, nor might the US military's interest representatives.

A strange bitterness welled up inside her, an inexplicable mix of resentment and unwillingness. When the Prince Enterprise was first being established, Adam had approached Michelle for funding, but conspicuously hadn't asked her. In terms of financial resources, connections, and the resources Michelle could mobilize in the Far East, what did Grace lack that Michelle possessed?
why?
She lit a slender cigarette, held it between her fingers but didn't take a puff. She simply let the pale blue smoke swirl around her, quietly inhaling the slightly astringent tobacco aroma. The feeling in her heart was even more profound than the cigarette itself.

She doesn't smoke, but lately she always has a cigarette pack with her.

The halo of succession that once surrounded her has long since faded away. Now she is just an ordinary senior executive at HSBC, and if she wants to take another step forward, she has no backing whatsoever; she must rely entirely on her solid performance.

Under immense pressure, she could only find solace in the faint scent of tobacco.

Is it to repay a debt of gratitude?
Admittedly, Adam is exceptionally capable, with methods and vision far beyond the reach of ordinary people. However, the decisive and timely assistance he received from Michelle at several crucial junctures has been crucial in helping him reach his current position.

For Adam, Michelle was no longer just an ordinary partner, but a very special person. Perhaps the song "Auld Lang Syne" truly contained half of Adam's true feelings.

Or perhaps, this was just Adam weighing his options. He invited her to invest in Bankman, but didn't invite Michelle. This haphazard company had unexpectedly exploded with momentum in a short period—profiting from exchange rate differences, earning cross-border transaction fees, secretly diverting funds to invest in various places, with unconventional methods, rapid turnover, and astonishing profit potential.

Most importantly, it requires a small investment and is a one-time investment with lifetime dividends.

If it were simply a matter of weighing interests or repaying a debt of gratitude, she could accept it without hesitation. But what she feared most was that Adam harbored deeper calculations and divisions—which would mean that in Adam's heart, there existed a gap between her and Michelle that even she herself was unaware of.

Just as she was staring at her coffee cup, lost in thought and feeling confused, Erin Jomondley walked slowly to the table and sat down in the chair opposite her.

Eileen took a cigarette from the pack, lit it, took a deep drag, and as the smoke drifted from her lips, she asked in a flat tone, "What's your opinion?"

Grace snapped out of her reverie, looked at her, and answered irrelevantly, "Where's Judy?"

“She met a man at the bar last night, and she said he reminded her of Adam.” Eileen shrugged indifferently. “There’s a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on her door, so she probably hasn’t gotten up yet.”

Grace frowned and said, "That's a disgusting way of putting it."

"Judy and Adam are just lovers, I don't think Adam will mind." Eileen flicked the ash from her cigarette, her tone indifferent as if she were talking about something perfectly ordinary.

“Adam won’t mind.” Grace nodded slightly. “How did the talk with Margaret Ross go?”

"An agreement has been reached, but the stake ratio is still being negotiated."

"Sign the contract as soon as possible."

"Hmm." Eileen took another drag of her cigarette, the smoke drifting over her eyes and brows, and said nothing more.

Grace paused for a moment, then said, "I agree to invest in Golden Seasons Trading Company."

"What about Prince Enterprises?"

"disagree."

"why?"

“I can’t think of anything that Prince Enterprises needs from Carl.”

Eileen didn't speak for a moment, the cigarette between her fingers hovering in mid-air, her eyes darkening slightly. A few seconds of silence lingered in the aroma of coffee before she slowly said, "Contact Adam. I'm going to Taipei to see him."

"OK."

Song Seung-soo's office.

Xian Yaowen sat at the table, a plain sheet of paper in front of him, writing a letter to Shi Yiguang.

The letter first expressed his longing for her, and then thanked her for her help.

Both Jinji Logistics and Jinji Trade are expanding into the Pakistani market, and Shi Yiguang has provided them with valuable connections.

Although Pakistan has been independent for four years, it is in fact a self-governing dominion of the Commonwealth, with King George VI of Great Britain as its nominal head of state, and British people occupy key positions in the core bureaucratic system.

Following the original historical trajectory, the Islamic Republic of Pakistan was established in 1956, at which point Pakistan completely broke away from the British monarchy and became a truly sovereign republic. Then, the Ayub Khan military government implemented pro-capital and heavy industrialization policies, supporting local conglomerates with low-interest loans, tax breaks, and preferential import licenses, which led to the emergence of the "22 Families" who monopolized the economic lifeline.

Then, in 1971, Bhutto came to power, and Pakistan embarked on the path of Islamic socialism, carrying out comprehensive nationalization. Local conglomerates faced annihilation until 1977, when Zia-ul-Haq's military government came to power, privatization was restarted, and the economy slowly recovered.

It is now 1951. If he were to ask himself honestly, he would actually have the ability to design a better development path for Pakistan if he disregarded everything. However, he is not an Aryan white man, nor is he a native Australian or a Dravidian. He has no racial feelings towards India or Pakistan, and he would not do something like burning himself to light up others.

他只想鸠占鹊巢，占据22家族中5个家族的机缘，“22-5+1”，变成朗朗上口的“18家族”。

For two decades, they have been meticulously cultivating the land of Pakistan, extracting massive profits from it, and cultivating a large number of their own people to hide in various fields. Whether it is capitalism, state capitalism, or Islamic socialism, they don't care who it is. They just change the skin and the model, and continuously leech off the citizens/people of Pakistan, controlling Pakistan's core wealth—the poor.

East Bengal, later East Pakistan, was the secessionary state of Bangladesh.

Dhaka, the capital of East Bengal, is the largest and most prosperous city in the country and the center of jute trade and commerce.

This is a city that holds a golden rice bowl (japonica) but is starving. Its economy is being drained by Siba, people are struggling, and the city is in ruins. However, commercial vitality and national awakening are surging beneath the surface.

At the northwest corner of Chok Square, Mitford Road and Islampur Road intersect to form a bustling corner, next to the gray dome of the Chok Mosque. Just a three-minute walk south leads to the riverside wharf of the Bengal Market.

This is the prime location for Dhaka's jute trade, where rows of brokerage firms house the city's most vibrant livelihoods.

A two-story building stood at the corner, the most conspicuous building in this bustling city, yet it lacked any refinement whatsoever. Dhaka was still recovering from the post-war hardship; building materials were scarce, and the landlord was reluctant to spend money on lime plastering.

As a result, the yellow bricks of the entire building were exposed, with moss accumulated over the years and gray-black marks left by rainwater, like wrinkles etched on an old man's face.

The base of the wall was polished to a shine by the passing rickshaws and street vendors, and the layers of patina were imbued with the smell of everyday life and the roughness of time.

The small building is a brick and wood structure with a rectangular floor plan that is not very regular. The sloping roof is covered with red clay tiles, and tangerine weeds have long since grown between the tiles, swaying gently in the wind.

There is no elevator, only a narrow solid wood staircase hidden on the side of the building. The treads have been worn deep by the footsteps of passersby, and the cold, round iron handrails are wrapped with a layer of faded old burlap, which is a mark left by years of handling.

The first floor has a high ceiling of four meters and serves as the storefront and warehouse of the business; the second floor is slightly lower, about three meters high, and is divided into offices and small lounges, bearing the trivialities and calculations of business dealings.

The facade wasn't particularly impressive. The ground floor featured a large three-bay shop window with two heavy double wooden doors. A thin layer of dust covered the window glass, and several yellowed, curled jute price lists were pasted on the corners, the ink smudged, and the numbers could be vaguely seen.

The second floor has two rectangular wooden windows with rusty iron bars welded to the window frames. Under the windows is a simple wooden flower stand with several half-dead jasmine plants, their leaves drooping but still stubbornly adorned with a few flower buds.

The eaves are so simple they're almost haphazard, with no carvings or decorations, just a shallow line of cement. A rusty rainwater pipe stands in the corner, like an old arm. Every time it rains, water droplets drip down the pipe, wetting the moss at the base of the wall and spreading out dark watermarks.

Pushing open the door and stepping into the ground floor, a rough smell mixed with jute fiber hits you.

The layout of the store in the front and the warehouse in the back is clear at a glance. On the left stands a mottled tin sample cabinet, which contains different grades of jute fiber, white and light brown, with clear textures.

In the center was a heavy solid wood writing desk, the copper clasps gleaming coldly, with receipts and an abacus spread out on the tabletop.

On the right were several neatly packed jute sample packages, tightly bound with hemp rope and covered with a little dirt. On the compacted dirt ground, a layer of fine sawdust was sprinkled to absorb moisture, making it soft to walk on and carrying a faint scent of wood chips.

As you climb the stairs, the treads creak and groan, as if telling the story of years of hardship.

The walls on the second floor were still bare yellow bricks, without any decoration. A yellowed map from the British India period hung on the wall, its edges curled up, along with a few yellowed jute export documents and a small shop sign, casually yet neatly pasted on the wall.

Three offices and a small lounge are scattered throughout the space, furnished with old-fashioned typewriters, heavy cast-iron filing cabinets, and several rattan chairs with surfaces worn smooth and shiny.

Lighting relied entirely on kerosene lamps and unreliable electric lights, with several cans of spare lamp oil piled in the corner. After all, in Dhaka in 1951, power outages were a frequent occurrence.

Pushing open the wooden window on the second floor, the bustling crowds of Chok Square come into view, with people coming and going, rickshaws shuttling back and forth, and vendors hawking their wares. Looking into the distance, the sails on the Buriganga River appear and disappear in the thin mist, the starting point for jute to travel to all parts of the world, and also the hope for all the livelihoods of this small building.

Beneath the second-floor window hangs a faded wooden sign, its frame cracked and paint peeling away to reveal the light brown wood grain beneath. Engraved in English are the words "Golden Season," with a few lines of fine Bengali script below, each stroke bearing the marks of time.

This is the office of the Golden Season Trading Company in Dhaka. In this golden corner, they invaded the jute business and also invaded a turbulent yet vibrant period of time.

In an office, Kadir Jamil Kazi, manager of the East Pa branch of Golden Trade, sat in his executive chair, processing orders. Some were destined for Kolkata, the world's largest jute processing center, some for the United States, and some for the Soviet Union.

Kazi pressed his throbbing temples, still feeling lingering fear as he recalled the drinking session from the previous night.

Last night, he hosted guests from Hong Kong, ostensibly West Germans who ran a trading company in Hong Kong. In reality, the trading company was a Soviet shell company. The West Germans could be East Germans or people from other Eastern European countries, or even Soviets. He wasn't very good at recognizing Europeans.

Regardless of where he was from, he was a heavy drinker. He couldn't even recall how much whiskey he had downed last night or how many tartares he had mixed with it. He only remembered that his stomach was churning and he felt like he was soaking in alcohol.

Thankfully, the contract was finally signed, securing an order for a full 20,000 bales (182kg/bale) of jute. Soon, a 30% deposit would be deposited into his HSBC account. As for the final payment, the other party originally requested that the goods be settled upon arrival in Odessa—crazy! He's not a fool; how could he agree to such a condition? He only agreed to deliver to Singapore, leaving the rest of the journey to the other party's discretion.

Kazi picked up the 24-flavor herbal tea on the table, took a sip, turned to look out the window, and pondered how to word his report to head office.

The goods were only halfway there, and it wasn't something that could be negotiated with just words. Comrades liked the ruble, but they also liked the pound and gold.

knock knock.

There was a knock on the office door, and before Kazi could answer, someone pushed the door open and walked in. It was a Chinese guy who looked flustered.

"Big boss, what a mess! The woman you arranged to entertain guests last night had a massive hemorrhage and is about to die!"

"Damn it!" Kazi's expression changed drastically, and he shouted angrily, "Has he been taken to the hospital yet?"

"The doctor has examined him; there's no hope!"

"Damn it!" Kazi slammed his fist on the table in anger. "Contact their family immediately and give them both hush money and funeral expenses."

The waiter readily agreed, his back already drenched in cold sweat. "Yes, boss! I'll take care of it right away, and I absolutely won't let a word out."

After the man left, Kazi rubbed his throbbing temples, feeling a pang of annoyance.

If he had known this would happen, he shouldn't have specifically looked for "clean" women for his customers. He could have just picked any pretty prostitute from Kumartuli, which would have prevented any problems.

Once the throbbing pain in his temples subsided slightly, he got up and walked outside.

He was so annoyed that he couldn't stay in the office any longer, so he got up and went home to check on his wife. At this hour, his wife was most likely in the kitchen tending to a clay pot. They hadn't finished the water chestnuts from yesterday, and he guessed she was making water chestnut and pork rib soup right now.

Shabak Hotel.

A woman, tightly wrapped in a carpet, was carried through the staff entrance, circled around to the hotel's back door, and quietly slipped into the back seat of a jeep.

A finger was placed in front of her nose to check if she was still breathing. Then the carpet covering her was gently removed, and someone reached out to check her genitals.

"Major intra-abdominal hemorrhage, source unknown, blood pressure gone, pulse undetectable, excessive blood loss, beyond saving."

"Could it have been saved if it had been done sooner?"

"Suspected corpus luteum rupture with hemoperitoneum is a condition that most doctors have only heard of but never seen, and even if they have seen it, they would not recognize it. Not to mention here, even in the United States, it is basically hopeless."

Before she could finish speaking, a hand suddenly gripped the woman's neck, the knuckles turning white from the force, and a deep, cold voice said, "Sorry, may you be reborn into a good family in your next life."

The car engine roared to life, the tires churning the muddy road with a dull thud. The window rolled down halfway, and a long whistle broke the silence of the back door, mingling with the engine's roar, as the car carrying the figure in the back seat sped away into the colorful, dark alleyway.

Will we go to hell?

"We are already in the eighteenth level of hell." (End of Chapter)