|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|||||||||||||||||||||||
|
The Consultant is a fast-paced international suspense thriller. This novel is based on suspicious events evolving from the 1994 agreement between the United States of America and North Korea, regarding the dismantling of secret nuclear weapons facilities in the region. In the process, ten billion dollars provided by the U.S. government ended up in the pockets of certain individuals from an international consortium of corporate executives, scientists, politicians and organized crime. Instead of peace and stability, the threat of long-range supernukes stationed in North Korea becomes a reality. Nicanor Industries is a Dallas-based conglomerate which has gone through a post-Cold War transformation from defense contractor to builder of nuclear power plants around the world. After Nicanor’s president John Farnsworth is killed in a mysterious plane crash over the Pacific, his young and enchanting wife Juliet, equipped with a law degree from Yale, takes over as the new powerful CEO of Nicanor Industries. Jerome Birchner is a flamboyant corporate consultant who is eager to retire at age forty. Birchner needs one significant last deal to make his dream come true. He is hired by Juliet Farnsworth to arrange for her a peculiar golden parachute--six hundred million dollars tax free. She presents herself as the distraught and grieving widow. Juliet Farnsworth lures Birchner to participate in her dangerous game of deceit. Birchner is mesmerized by the opportunity to play white knight, and by the hefty commission offered for such an apparently easy assignment. As he signs on, he doesn’t see the red flags and steps right into the well-prepared trap. Undersecretary of State, Robert Baxter, invites Birchner to a confidential meeting at a secret Nicanor nuclear facility in North Korea. But before Baxter can share some disturbing information about Nicanor and its new CEO with Birchner, he is murdered. Birchner returns to the U.S. where, unbeknownst to him, the game is about to change. After the first money transfer, Juliet Farnsworth surprises Birchner with a personal visit to his lavish Naples estate. Birchner’s wife keeps a wary eye on the exhausted widow, but is soon charmed by Juliet’s interest in her teenage children--of whom Juliet takes many pictures. A week later, Birchner’s teenagers disappear. Local authorities say the evidence points to a runaway situation, but Birchner’s wife is convinced they were kidnapped. Anonymous e-mail to Birchner confirm their worst fears, threatening their lives if Jerome Birchner doesn’t follow orders exactly. Birchner is blackmailed and he is desperate. Is he being watched at every moment? He doesn’t know who to trust and where to turn for help. Only a radical and vengeful CIA field operative, ex-Navy SEAL Chuck Osteen, offers Birchner a glimmer of hope. But at what price? Who is pulling the strings? Is Juliet truly the innocent widow she portrays herself to be? Can she elude the unscrupulous consortium, or is she a part of it? And is the CIA actually unable to help, or are they unwilling? Endeavoring to identify his enemies to effectively evade them, and to protect his life and the lives of his wife and children, the deadly chase takes Birchner around the globe. He’s led through the offices of the dubious International Atomic Energy Agency in Vienna, and he’s taken behind hushed doors in Washington. Events unfold rapidly as Birchner begins to suspect a subtle scheme of white-collar nuclear terrorism motivated by greed. In the midst of the hunt, he comes up against renegade CIA Special Agent Trevor Gates, a young and ambitious man with designs on Juliet, and her fortune. Between them, the unlikely team of Birchner and Osteen piece together enough of the Big Secret to realize that the fate of the world--and their own survival--depends solely on their next move. It seems impossible to stop China and North Korea--now arming with long-range supernukes--in their vicious attempt to take over the world. Everything is at stake, and a time bomb is ticking. It appears as if fact and fiction merge. Some characters are driven by greed and passion, others by a relentless pursuit for justice. Will Jerome Birchner and everybody in his family survive the breathtaking roller coaster through the surprising twists and turns of this story? How about Juliet Farnsworth and Trevor Gates, will they live happily ever after or must they pay the ultimate price for their ambitions? What about the individuals who are pulling the strings behind the scenes--are they getting away with their crimes as they add billions of dollars to their wealth? The world is left with the reality that there’s the lurking danger of long-range supernukes in the Far East, which are in the hands of unstable governments--insane political and religious leaders who are ready to pull the trigger at any time. The national security of the United States has been compromised and the survival of mankind is uncertain. |
|
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 / Scherf, Inc.
THE CONSULTANT
|
|||||||||||||
|
A-Z
DIRECTORY
|
ART GALLERY
|
AUCTIONS
|
GUITARS
|
ALEC DONZI |
Copyright © 1997-2008 scherf.com | All rights reserved.
THE CONSULTANT