Chapter 16: Ferengson – Malevcon Mining site, Nazca, Peru – January 9
Dr. Ferengson sat in the Malevcon office at the mining site reviewing his current data. He wanted to make sure he had been thorough before contacting the General regarding a progress report. He had mostly good news to report and even the bad news was really more of an impediment to work around.
Sven hoped that when Wessel heard the bad news, he would be so intrigued as to overlook Sven's intended later purchase of one of the sites for himself. The fact that Sven planned to downplay to the General, the actual findings regarding the best of 12 sites Sven had now investigated, was a delicate matter; thus, Sven had to 'doctor' the report accordingly. Who better to 'doctor' than a doctor?
In rationalizing his intended plan, Sven had imagined a scenario 10 years in the future. If he were rich by then because of having purchased the best of these gold mining sites for himself in the near future, while having recommended the second best site to General Wessel minutes from now; then, when might the General discover Sven's mild deception? Surely it would take years before even an expert could declare with confidence that one site was better than the other was.
If this were the case, Sven would only have to worry about the wrath of General Wessel at that future date. Besides, Dr. Ferengson could yet be wrong in his prognostication and Wessel's site might be the better producer in the end.
In addition, Wessel was hardly young now: he could be dead by then, and Sven could think of no reason to fear dead men. In fact, he reasoned that if he was rich by that point, then, if necessary, he could hire protection against the wrath of a still living Wessel. Sven even considered that Wessel might instead shake his hand and offer him membership into his club of cunning capitalists.
As he sat prioritizing his report, Ferengson continued his rationalizing by noting that his good news vastly outweighed the bad and most importantly, it focused on present concerns. His news revolved around the fact that miners at this current site had continued to chip away at the largest vein lode Sven had ever encountered as a professional geologist.
This was better news than any Sven could offer regarding a potential second mining site. The General struck Dr. Ferengson as a 'live for today' sort of person. Again, Sven reminded himself that Wessel was old. He wants what he can get now – not 10 years from now!
As to the bad news, Sven expected that Wessel would consider it as more of a bump than a roadblock. That is, Sven would have to alert the General that although he expected the vein lode was far from its eventual ending; nevertheless, that ending was certainly not on Malevcon's current property: if Wessel wanted to dig further, then soon he would be breaking the law.
Sven had referenced a property map and discovered that in less than 200 feet beyond where they were now digging, the damned Heritage site began. That bitch, Clarkson-Smythe, had held her conference about this Nazca Lines site. It was an ironic twist and maybe she would yet be the scourge of capitalism. At any rate, the boundary problem and the bitch were General Wessel's problem – Sven was close to heading for rest and relaxation.
Sven could barely focus on prioritizing his report because thoughts of receiving his own financial reward from his completed work kept interfering. He hoped to finish before this evening; furthermore, he looked forward to celebrating with a female companion. Being celibate for the past three weeks in this hellhole had held only one advantage for Sven: he had spent very little money!
Sven looked in the office mirror and praised himself for avoiding female company so far. He had concluded after his initial plane ride down here that it was not worth the risk. He had guessed that the General had planted spies everywhere. In particular, Wessel had sent one 'special' employee to Nazca two weeks ago. The fellow's name was Chuck, and he had immediately informed Sven that he was 'here to protect you – I am your body guard.' Chuck had followed Sven around as a dog would a doting owner that first week.
As Sven sat back down, he reasoned that the General had become paranoid. Wessel had called Sven regularly during his three weeks in Nazca but at random times through the day. He would always claim merely to be 'checking up' on Sven. At first, Sven had thought it quaint; however, Sven eventually had concluded that Wessel was presumably trying to catch him with a woman.
Sven smiled when he remembered that last week when Chuck had other business, Sven had slipped away from the office; went for a drive into town; and then discovered a rather 'special' hotel on the outskirts of town where the skirts fell down! As he daydreamed about what he anticipated experiencing there later this evening, Sven heard a knock on the door. It was the Peruvian supervisor of the mine.
As he rubbed his eyes, Sven asked, "What can I do for you, Pedro?"
Pedro reminded him, explaining, "It is time for your call, signor, jes?"
Ferengson had heard just enough native-tongued Spanish speakers previously to recognize that they had trouble with English words that started with the letter 'y' – they usually pronounced such words with a 'j' sound instead. If that was laughable to Sven, it was nothing compared to their complete inability to utter words that began with the letter 'h'. Those words they started with a sound resembling a person clearing his sinus or throat in preparation to spit mucus. To Sven, Spanish-speakers speaking English sounded uniformly sickening.
Hiding his true feelings, Sven smiled and replied, "Thank you for the reminder, Pedro; and yes, I will put in a good word for you and your hard-working crew!"
Pedro replied, "Gracias, signor!" Then, with humbleness, he backed out of the room bowing repeatedly as he went.
As he watched Pedro leave, Sven thought, 'Damn foreigners; nothing wrong with my English!
Sven imagined that until Malevcon hired Pedro, he had been a local yokel riding a horse and pulling a donkey that carried hardened manure. The General had been right about this place being a hellhole. The locals were impolite, even intolerant of white visitors unless they held positions of authority. When they spoke to a white boss like Sven, these spicks fawned and toadied. It was a pathetic place.
On the other hand, Sven had figured out that it was also a dangerous place. Most of these spicks carried guns when off-duty, especially the higher wage-earning employees of Malevcon. Sven needed to maintain a certain level of authoritative diplomacy.
As he looked down to his holster, he remembered thanking the General for supplying him with a rifle, pistol, and ammo, shortly after Sven had arrived. As he sat with the cell phone in his left hand, he patted his holster with his right, as if the gun were his friend and imagined that he resembled Indiana Jones. He fantasized that locals would respectfully nickname him 'Dakota Ferengson'. To them he would be a 'kick-ass Yankee gringo' even though he was actually Swedish. These macho Latino types want to see authority worn around the waist and across the chest, in the form of bullets.
Dr. Ferengson dialled the secure number and began his call. When Wessel answered, Sven began, "General, I have completed my site scouting assignment and have an update on your current mine's situation."
Wessel responded, "Great to hear, doctor. Everything go alright?"
With an upbeat tone and a quick pace, Sven explained, "Well sir, most of my news is positive. I have a promising site to recommend and the gold vein lode your miners discovered three weeks ago is sill producing at record levels!"
Instantly wary, Wessel remarked, "That's great, doctor, but you said 'most' of yer news was positive. What could be negative?"
"Well, sir, I believe eastward past your drilling rights area, there could be a substantial lode also . . ."
Excitedly, Wessel interrupted, "Well, shit, son, that's great news! Now don't you worry 'bout drilling where it ain't legal. I can take care of any local authorities. Hell, they'll either join us or get out o' the way! You just get in there and tell me what we're facin'."
Sven did not like hearing the expression 'just get in there' because Ferengson considered his work finished. He began, "Well, sir, I have a recommendation on paper for you
. . ."
Dismissively, Wessel continued, "Don't climb off the horse so soon, cowboy! I'll increase your fee of course, but I need you to stay and oversee the next phase o' the operation!"
"Yes, sir, but . . ."
"No 'buts', Dr. Ferengson," interrupted Wessel. Then he quipped, "And no 'butts' either!"
The General lapsed into a fit of self-congratulating dialogue interspersed with laughter, seemingly tremendously impressed by his own wit. His shameless outburst reminded Sven of the cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn.
Dismayed by the increased workload, Sven neutrally enquired, "What sorts of time commitments do you require, sir?"
Back on track, Wessel explained, "Well now, that's what I like – enthusiasm! I'll tell you what – you fire off that report to me right now and I'll call ya back with a plan right after I read it!"
They ended their call and Sven Ferengson slumped back in the swivelling chair, placed his hands on his face, and sighed. He sighed because he had recommended in his report that the only way to 'acquire' the gold was by means of a directional drill. The problem was, finding a supplier of such a specialized piece of equipment was hard enough, but finding the sort of extra large drill Sven had recommended for this specific need would be damn near impossible. Meanwhile, Sven had just agreed to stay and oversee the project. Wonderful! I'll probably die here . . . celibate too!
He swivelled in his chair to look out the small window. He clasped his hands behind his head and asked himself when this would all end. He had been imagining visiting the hotel; instead, he remained waiting for the General's call. He thought it ironic that he had only just taught the General the meaning of the term 'directional drill' a few weeks earlier.
He stood up, crossed the room, and faxed his report to the General. It would take a few seconds to transmit, and the General would need mere minutes to read it; however, the drill Sven had recommended could take weeks to find, and a further month to assemble.
Despite the extra pay, Sven would not enjoy the wait. As he watched the report sliding through the machine, he thought about potential excuses. Unfortunately, Sven knew that Wessel was aware of Sven's family situation. Sven had no relatives whose death he could lie about. Neither could Sven convince a man like Wessel that money was unimportant. Wessel knew that Sven was a capitalist – capitalists adored cash – cash was here for the easy making. Case closed!
Worst of all, Sven reasoned that asking Wessel for a few days off would diminish him in the General's eyes; moreover, even if Wessel allowed a short leave, Sven knew the man would fret and worry the whole time he was gone. That would not make for continued good relations. Sven reasoned that his only chance to escape was to convince Wessel about the infeasibility of acquiring the drill.
Sven sat back down after he had received confirmation of the sent report and closed his eyes to nap. About an hour later, General Wessel returned his call. Sven immediately set about making things difficult, explaining, "I think the size machine you would need might not exist, sir." Ingenuously, he continued, "I am sorry, but, although it is a noble capitalistic venture; nevertheless, you would likely need to custom-build the drill and that could take over a year."
Unfazed, Wessel countered, "Hold yer horses there, Doc! I have a neighbour who knows a thing or two about this sort o' thing! I'll git back to ya about what he tells me!"
Sven tried his second ploy, which was actually probably true. He explained, "My examination of the area caused me to conclude that I highly doubt you could find an experienced enough dynamite specialist down here for a task of this scope. You will probably need a few months to find someone qualified . . . and who will be willing to risk it, considering the legal position, sir? I could, of course, return later to assist as you might need."
Reassuring him, Wessel began, "Well now, once agin, don't you worry about that." Then he revealed, "I'll get Chuck to do the blasting and to bring in his special excavation crew, pronto!"
Surprised, Sven repeated, "Chuck?" Then he added, "But, Chuck . . . is my bodyguard."
Slightly evasive, Wessel continued, "Chuck is a . . . man of many talents, doctor."
Afraid to hear the answer, Sven inquired, "Chuck can blast with dynamite?"
Proudly, Wessel revealed, "He's an Ex-marine with 10 years in bomb diffusing, construction, and deployment!"
Slowly and defeated, Sven replied, "I see, General, I will have a chat with him. Very good then. You seem to have this under control, sir. Any idea of how long you think you'll continue to need me?"
Wessel admitted, "Hell, no, doctor. That's really up to you and Chuck." Then, he quickly added; "Now my advice to you would be to get at it fast if ya wanna make it home fer lover's day!"
Sven heard Wessel begin the same sort of Foghorn Leghorn shit he earlier had to endure, and so Sven disconnected without saying anything more.
Sven sat staring at the cell phone in his hand and wondered how many other surprises he would discover in the coming weeks.
Zarulium Chronicles I - Destination Nazca Page 18