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First Two Chapters THE CONSULTANT
John Farnsworth watched the Dallas skyline disappear as the Gulfstream banked north, climbing to twenty thousand feet. A flight crew of five, including two flight attendants, accompanied the Nicanor Industries CEO on his trip to North Korea. Farnsworth found it strangely disquieting that the other parties scheduled for the trip had canceled at the last minute. Something about prior commitments. "Care for a glass of champagne before lunch, Mr. Farnsworth?" one of the flight attendants asked. "Sure, sweetie," he said, his eyes locked between her legs. She smiled, aware of his horny gaze, and not disliking it at all. Farnsworth accepted the glass and stared out the window. Below, he could see Wichita Falls and the barren West Texas panhandle beyond. The attendant began serving lunch and Farnsworth shelved his apprehension about the sudden cancellations for later. After lunch Farnsworth had an attendant bring his laptop so he could work on revisions for his North Korean proposal. Two hundred miles off the California coast, the CEO for Nicanor clicked off the computer and leaned back satisfied. From the ground, against the backdrop of a cloudless and perfect blue sky, an imaginative observer may have mistaken the Gulfstream for a polished, shiny silver bullet advancing in slow motion. Suddenly, a massive explosion over the Pacific, not audibly noticeable for anybody on the ground or in the air, except for Farnsworth and the flight crew of the doomed Nicanor jet. The aircraft transformed into a ball of fire instantly. The Gulfstream disintegrated into thousands of tiny burning pieces seconds later. Simply ripped apart by powers as violent as an erupting volcano. With one bang the noise from the engines had been forced into a deadly silence. Nothing anymore. No screams, no laughter, no happy toasts of gentle colliding champagne flutes, no friendly chiming noise from active silverware, no chirps from computers and other high-tech gear, no swish of thighs wrapped in nylons softly rubbing against each other, no rustle of a garment. No sound at all. Silence shattered only for a moment as the debris hit the waters. With its immeasurable yawning gulf and much like an anticipated dessert, the gigantic ocean swallowed the crushing fragments of the jet and of charred bodies within minutes. Ten minutes after the explosion every ounce of debris had been sucked down into the deep. Sure, a few small segments still floated here and there, but it wouldn’t take much longer until these were lost at sea too. Vanished, gone forever. The only apparently positive aspect in this whole ordeal was the fact that the victims didn’t have to suffer--no pain at all. It ended in a one-second tick. Excerpts from Chapter
2 Pearls of sweat formed on his forehead whenever he squeezed his two-hundred-seven-pound body into the tight Recaro seat of the Jaguar convertible. Exiting the car was an even more strenuous experience, producing soaked armpits instantly. The Jaguar was his wife’s car. Birgid Birchner liked convertibles, especially for the type of climate they enjoyed year-round in this part of Florida. Jerome Birchner on the other hand wasn’t enthusiastic about cabriolets. Not that cabriolets weren’t any fun, but he was a little paranoid. In fact, Jerome Birchner had good reasons to be paranoid. Someone could shoot him in the back of his head, or some crazy dude may perceive the cabriolet an easy carjacking target. On this scorching day in July as asphalt patches softened and rare spots of connecting asphalt strings melted, Jerome stashed away his fears and phobias. The convertible stood readily available and he was in the mood to feel the wind blow through his thinning hair and smash against his face and swerve around his ears. His wife had gone shopping and she cruised around town in the new Navigator they had just bought a week ago. * * * Since he had first hung out his shingle as a corporate consultant, some twelve years ago, his career had taken off without a break from day one until recently. It was hard work though, especially during the mid-nineties, and as long as he could make a fortune at what he did, he didn’t mind routine jobs. These days things were pretty relaxed for Jerome Birchner. Having just turned thirty-nine with a net worth of sixty million dollars, Jerome could’ve retired already--he gave it some serious thought recently. * * * The black Jaguar turned right and coasted slowly toward the remote controlled cast-iron gates of Whitecaps Island, a new development. The remote control was voice activated and verified the identity of the speaker as it communicated with the receiver built into the left pillar on which one of the gates was hinged. "Me," Jerome said into the mic of the remote control, and the stately gates opened without a squeak. Two surveillance cameras peered from the gate pillars--one camera in each pillar--producing digital recordings of the immediate area around the gates, around the clock. Will Smith’s Wild, Wild West blared through the car stereo. Situated on nearly fifteen acres, four Mediterranean-style mansions of generous proportions were on display. Located at the northern city limits of Naples, connected to the Gulf Shore Boulevard and near Mooring Line Drive, this luxurious residential development stood out amid the other developments in the area. There were plenty of multimillion-dollar homes everywhere, but Whitecaps Island was a notch above the rest as it had been graciously crowned with a rare long private beach front. Even at auction this parcel of land sold for a small fortune. Jerome had purchased this chunk of paradise together with a friend, Walter Kalkmeier, four years ago. A couple of yachts were anchored at the northerly end of the property where a wooden pier ran straight into the Gulf. A few exotic imports decorated the driveway of Walter Kalkmeier’s estate. Two of the four homes seemed vacant with empty driveways. Valerie Kalkmeier emerged from underneath a weeping willow, storming into the driveway. "Hi, Val!" Jerome waved. She ignored him. With her high heels Valerie slid over the loose gravel and almost fell. Her short skirt barely covered her derriere--Jerome couldn’t help but notice. And Valerie’s scanty tank top didn’t provide much protective cladding either, baring her breasts more than was usually acceptable even in this generous part of Florida where almost anything was tolerated--her Gucci shades seemed bigger than the tank top. She jerkily opened the door to a yellow Ferrari. Her mind was obviously preoccupied as she didn’t pay any attention to her surroundings. Without even as much as a glance, Valerie backed the car out of the driveway, rocks kicking from the rear end, the fat tires squealing and leaving marks on the asphalt as she raced toward the main gate. She was only inches away from ramming into the Birchner Jag. She didn’t notice a thing, and neither did Jerome. Jerome’s mansion was the last house on the left near the pier where his Scarab rested in the calm waters. A huge circular drive crowned the exorbitant front entrance which was heavily populated by tall columns. The circular drive had been directly attached to the cul-de-sac. Left to the circular drive was a straight driveway to Jerome’s six-car garage. One of the garage doors opened quietly as Jerome lightly pressed the button on the automatic garage-door opener in the Jag. Copyright © 2000 by Alec Donzi
THE CONSULTANT
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