| Subject: Chapter 1 |
Author:
Juli
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Date Posted: Saturday, May 22, 11:30:34pm
In reply to:
Juli
's message, "Angelita" on Friday, May 21, 10:47:26pm
Chapter 1
2004 Manhattan, New York
The early evening haze hung over the skyscrapers in the city that never sleeps. Nicholas Wirth stared out the window of his 53rd floor office without really seeing the view. A glass of scotch rested untouched in his hand.
“Mr. Wirth?” a voice from the door drew his attention from the city skyline, and he turned.
“Yes, Gail?” he asked his assistant.
“Is there anything else you need before I go?” she asked.
“No. Have a nice weekend,” he said turning back to the window.
“I put your calendar on your desk. Remember the meeting with Mr. Reed on Monday morning,” she reminded, taking her coat from its peg near the door and draping it over her arm.
“Thank you, Gail,” Nick replied without turning.
Gail quietly closed her boss’s office door, and headed for the elevator. She sighed. In the six years she had worked for Nicholas Wirth, she had never seen him happy. She wished that she knew what made him tick. She realized that she had a bit of a crush on him, but he never showed more than a professional interest in her. Gail punched the elevator button and slipped on her coat.
The doors slid open and Gail slipped in, noticing that Mr. Wirth’s computer whiz, Birkoff, was also headed down.
“Hi, Birkoff,” she said, checking that the button for the lobby was lit. Once more, as she always did, she wondered whether Birkoff was his first or last name.
“Uh, hi, Miss Chambers, uh Gail,” the bespectacled young man stammered.
“Do you have any great plans for the weekend,” she asked, making small talk as the elevator headed for the first floor.
“Uh, no. Well, unless you call a tech convention, great plans,” he said, looking slightly embarrassed.
Gail laughed. “Well it’s better than my plans. Laundry, clean my apartment, and hang out with my cat,” she admitted ruefully, wishing she had a life.
“Well,” Birkoff began, intending for the hundredth time to ask Gail out. But before he could screw up enough courage, the elevator dinged and the doors slid silently open.
“Have a fun time at the convention,” she called as she stepped out on the polished black marble floor.
Birkoff sighed and raised a hand to wave, but Gail was already halfway to the front doors.
Birkoff stepped out of the elevator and pulled out his PDA to check his schedule. He still had to pack before heading off to Chicago for the convention. He hailed a cab out in front of Wirth’s building, and gave the driver his address. At his west-side apartment, Birkoff pulled his suitcase out from under his bed and opened it on the bed.
He had just finished throwing in the last of his clothing, when his cell phone rang. He ran for the dresser, realizing that the particular ring was the one assigned for Mr. Wirth’s private line.
“Yes, sir?” he said, flipping open the phone.
“Get back here now, Birkoff,” Wirth fairly shouted into the phone.
“What is it, sir?” Birkoff asked in bewilderment.
“Just get here,” Wirth said and then hung up.
Birkoff stared at the phone for a moment as if willing it to answer his questions, and then grabbed his suitcase and headed for the door. He could still make his flight if he hurried.
Birkoff stuck his head into Mr. Wirth’s office when his boss shouted for him to come in.
“You needed to see me, sir?” he asked, still in the dark about what Mr. Wirth could possibly want.
“Get your butt in here, Birkoff,” Wirth said, his eyes glued to the television screen placed unobtrusively in a built in wall unit.
Birkoff began to sweat. “What had he done wrong?” he wondered.
“Y-y-yes, sir,” he said, stepping into the room.
“See this?” Wirth asked pointing at the TV with the remote control.
Birkoff looked at the TV screen noticing some sort of documentary/news story being shown. He looked back at Wirth, confusion on his face.
Wirth used the Tevo to “rewind” the program to the appropriate place.
“This Dr. Johannson and his team were in Bolivia. They were studying the native cultures down there. Somehow Dr. Johannson got separated from his team and became dehydrated and ill. Some locals found him and took him back to their village to tend to him,” Wirth summarized. Then he hit the play button.
Birkoff focused his attention on the TV screen as the program leapt to life. A short balding man with glasses was speaking to the news reporter, gesticulating wildly.
“I believe that I was unconscious for some time, but the people tended to my injuries until I awoke.”
“And then what happened, doctor?” the narrator asked.
“As I was recovering, I was in and out of consciousness, delirious with malaria. However, on one occasion when I awoke, a white skinned woman with long blonde hair sat beside my pallet, bathing my forehead. She smiled at me and I drifted back into unconsciousness. I never saw her again after that one time. At first, I thought she was an angel, but after I returned to the States, the more I thought about the experience, the more I felt that she was real. There is a white woman living among the Bolivian Indians,” Dr. Johannson concluded with zeal.
The narrator continued his speech, but Wirth hit the pause button. Birkoff looked with surprise and confusion at his boss.
Not knowing what to say, Birkoff remained silent.
“Have you ever heard the story of my wife, Birkoff?” Wirth said, pinning the computer whiz with a hard stare.
“Uh, just what I’ve read, sir,” Birkoff stammered.
“Have a seat,” Wirth said, motioning to one of the sofas in the spacious office. He then recounted the story of his fateful trip to Bolivia and Rita’s disappearance.
Birkoff was stunned. “So you think the woman that the doctor saw in Bolivia was your wife?” he asked in disbelief, thinking that his boss may have snapped.
“I know it sounds farfetched, but look at the facts. A blonde, white woman,” he said, holding up one finger. “The village is less than ten miles from where we were attacked,” he said, holding up another. “We never found Rita’s body,” he concluded, his voice catching just a fraction.
Birkoff’s mind was reeling. “So… what exactly, did you want me to do?” he asked hesitantly, still not certain that his boss had not lost his mind.
Wirth held up the remote and aimed it at the TV, fast forwarding a few minutes of the program. He stopped when a graphic of a man appeared on the screen. He had longish brown hair and green eyes, and was not smiling. Birkoff looked at the picture as the narrator continued.
“A real life ‘Crocodile Dundee’ so to speak was the one to rescue Dr. Johannson and his team. Michael Samuelle, a native of France, was called in by the American Embassy to go into the jungle to track down and find Dr. Johannson’s team.”
Wirth clicked off the TV and turned to Birkoff. “I want you to find that man,” he said with finality.
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