Chapter 5: Ferengson – Royal York suite – later the same day
After the conference had ended, Sven Ferengson retreated to his elegant hotel room. He lay down, placed his hands behind his head, and then closed his eyes. Before long he was daydreaming about being with a woman, but just as he was forming a face to go with the shapely body, he heard his cell phone ring. Reaching into his pocket for it, Sven answered the call. It was from the boss.
Shouting into the phone, the General declared, "I heard you handled that bitch's press conference real fine, doctor!"
Ferengson imagined that General Hank Wessel was probably typical for a 60+ year-old retired army type: both hard on people and of hearing. The doctor laughed at his end and replied, "Yes, I believe the English expression is 'piece of cake', sir – and not a bad piece of other things, too – but so transparently falsely sophisticated!"
"Well," began the General, "I knew before I ever had to accept her onto the Malevcon board o' directors that I'd soon need the services of a respected geologist for some real work."
"Yes, sir," interjected Ferengson.
The General continued, "Once she called for that bull-crap transparency conference though, I remembered your archaeology background, and knew that it might pacify the goddamn press – it sure is cheaper buying just one person to do both!"
Ferengson replied, "Sir, I compliment you on your choice of . . . me!" Then, the two laughed smugly.
The General continued, "Now to business, doctor – we've booked you a flight to Cusco in Peru for next Monday."
Hiding his disappointment, Ferengson remarked, "I suspected you might choose Cusco, but I had hoped for Lima. You might say I have a personal reason."
The General advised him, explaining, "Yeah, I figured you'd prefer the nightlife in Lima, but that could make this all 'higher profile' than we want. We don't want any goddamn protesters to get any more press than we have to give them, and you need to keep a low profile yourself, and Cusco is out of the way."
Swedish by birth, Ferengson asked, "Will someone be picking me up there? My Spanish consists of telling Spanish speakers to speak English because they certainly do not speak Swedish."
Sympathetically, the General replied, "I hear ya and I'm sorry to send you to such a third world toilet like this, filled with bloody Catholics and stinkin' Injuns, but hey – God is on America's side. He just likes to challenge us!"
"Indeed, sir," replied Ferengson.
The General continued, "But anyways, yeah, we've arranged everything for ya. You'll have to hold tight in Toronto for a few days because the earliest we could arrange a charter to get you from Cusco to Nazca was next week: you’ll be flying all the way, doctor – the first part in first class!"
Business-like, Ferengson explained, "I have the photocopies of all statistics and I comprehend what you require, General. I will send you regular updates by phone."
The General grew conspiratorial, adding, "I appreciate the cloak and dagger style, doctor. If we limit ourselves to verbal updates and write the odd thing down – well, as you know paper burns and words can be denied!"
"I understand, sir."
The General continued, "That damn Internet email crap on the other hand, is like that ad on TV where the cartoon bear has the shitpipe paper stuck to its butt – everybody in the whole world can read yer dirty mail! It's a real pain in the ass . . ."
"Understood, sir; you will be hearing from me soon."
With that remark, they ended the call. Ferengson respected that the General was not being paranoid regarding communication methods – he was being sensible. Despite what email had done to revolutionize communication for the masses in its time; nevertheless, it was easily traceable. Ferengson knew that a great many well-intended folks had lost a career or faced demotion over 'leaked' messages and watchdogs had caught a few dishonest ones as well.
Ferengson realized that General Wessel had held a time zone advantage during their exchange: it was minutes after 6 PM in Malibu, California where Wessel had called from, but here in frigid Toronto it was after nine. The recognition that he was stuck in the freezing Toronto darkness, instead of clinking cocktail glasses with the General in the California sun, miffed the doctor.
Ferengson reasoned that it was entirely that arrogant bitch's fault. Malevcon's head office was in winter-friendly Vancouver, the General in sunny Malibu; yet, Lady Ruth Clarkson-Smythe called the media event for Toronto, which was her frigid adopted hometown. Frigid like her, no doubt!
The General had insisted Ferengson do everything she requested, including making a personal appearance, in order to show compliance and respect. The fact that neither man actually had any respect for the woman was a fact that political correctness and etiquette hid from plain sight.
Ferengson enjoyed this 21st century social disposition of political correctness. No one dared speak anything that he knew the public would not tolerate anymore for fear of reputation loss or legal action; but that also meant the public had become complacent. This passive confidence suited opportunistic entrepreneurs like the doctor and Wessel perfectly.
Sven poured some wine into a sanitized cup, and wondered if he was not living in a Golden Age for wealth-seeking geologists: political correctness shut up the ignorant; duped the reasonably intelligent; and left the capitalistic geniuses free range to line their pockets with gold. He laughed knowing that in the case of his association with Malevcon, that statement was the literal truth.
Sven glanced out his expensive hotel window towards the glass skyscraper across the road. He could see lights on in a lone room within the gigantic office building. Inside this room, he spied a Christmas tree. Bah! Humbug!
His least favourite time of year because of bad memories, Sven refocused his thoughts on the task of selecting a second suitable mining site for Malevcon Mining Limited.
During the next few hours, he reviewed the printed data the General had sent him. So far, Malevcon's lone mining property near Nazca had produced gold deposits at a comparatively prolific rate. This made Ferengson smile, as he recalled that he selected that property for Malevcon in the first place. His record so far was perfect.
Printed reports were usually clinical speculations created by statisticians. A geologist like Ferengson would never trust a paper report until he had personally studied the ground. Sven likened this to the idea of glimpsing a picture of a beautiful woman to that of actually touching her skin: the former hints at potential, but the latter proves it.
The Earth is to an expert geologist as an intimate lover is to her partner – She needs me to bring the best out of her.
Thinking of the Earth in such a way ignited Sven's memory of another heavenly body. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone number of the reporter he had flirted with earlier. She would do for one night, and if she still pleased him in the morning, Sven would allow her to share his continental breakfast! A bread roll for a bedroll!
Zarulium Chronicles I - Destination Nazca Page 7