Kirchborn
Kirchborn is an international terrorist organization that infiltrates some of the world's more prestigious corporations and sports organizations. Its strategy is diabolical, its methods ruthless, and its goals predictable: the holy trinity of money, power, and influence. Sneak Preview:
|  |
About the Author:Kent Gilmore, born in San Francisco, Publisher of acclaimed anthology Along the Way, Author and Horse Trainer; lives with his wife on the Central Coast of California. Formerly a business executive in Printing, Manufacturing and Real Estate Development on both Coasts. Prologue: |  |
The flight from Dubai to DeGaulle International was mercifully short for one of its regular passengers. The cultural differences between the Middle East and Western civilization were and always would be worlds apart for Jean-Paul Plutard. He had been on the road for weeks and eagerly awaited returning to his native land where he could finally shake the sand out of his socks one last time. As an experienced business traveler, he steadfastly refused to fly from one hellhole to another; a layover in Paris, which he considered the capital of the world, was not just another rest stop, it was an absolute necessity.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Plutard," the doorman of the Hotel Littre said as Jean-Paul heaved himself clumsily from the taxi. He gave the doorman a nod, expecting to be recognized. He always stayed at the four-star Littre when in Paris--particularly when he was on an expense account. He paused a moment under the porte cochere as the bellman unloaded his luggage. The bags were of calfskin, and easily scratched. But the bellman knew his job, as did the doorman-more, he thought, than could be said for those savage ragheads he left behind in the desert.
A shameless pretender to an imaginary throne that existed solely in his own imagination, Jean-Paul waddled into the hotel lobby with a feigned air of nobility usually reserved for the ruling classes, unaware that his every movement was being carefully monitored from across the street.
"What a pig," said one of the men sitting in an unmarked van parked conspicuously close to the hotel entrance. "He's even fatter than he looks in his pictures."
"Yes, we should charge by the pound for this job." His partner tossed a cigarette butt out the window where it joined the half-dozen preceding it. The two men had been waiting over an hour for this moment; now they must wait just a little longer. They knew exactly what the fat man would do next. It was all spelled out in the dossier accompanying their generous commission. Plutard's photos, his travel itinerary, a list of all the places he frequented, and the little excursions he was known to take when he came to Paris. And some list it was, too. Jean-Paul was quite a ladies man as well as a predictable creature of habit. He was accustomed to indulging certain...appetites.
"L'Auberge," Jean-Paul snapped as he and the bellman entered the suite that Swiss Bancorp & Indemnity had rented for him.
"Pardon, Monsieur?"
"L'Auberge," Jean-Paul repeated impatiently. "The restaurant? Please arrange a table for one at eight o'clock this evening. Comprend?"
"I will take care of it immediately, Monsieur." The bellman gratefully accepted his handsome tip and backed out of the room obsequiously.
Jean-Paul slid the window curtains open, letting in a shower of light that reflected on a large envelope laying on the antique Louis XIV writing desk. The logo next to the return address was all too familiar. Scowling but curious, he picked it up. It was not the first time his company had been thoughtful enough to send a set of working papers ahead for him to study before the next assignment. How very like them. "Homework," he muttered cynically. "What am I, a schoolboy?"
How laughable, thought Jean-Paul, who had worked as a claims adjuster for over twenty years. One of his specialties was equine mortality, and in this capacity he had saved his company millions of dollars. When he had finished investigating a claim, the policyholder rarely recovered full payment. His modus operandi was simple: manipulate the facts, introduce technicalities, confuse the clients. More often then not, it worked, and worked so well that clients almost never questioned the result.
He hesitated a moment, then tore open the envelope and scanned a summary of information about the latest dead horse, Geronimo. He raised his eyebrows. Surprised, he actually recognized the name--this was a valuable animal by any standard, even by the stratospheric valuations found at the highest level of international equestrian competition. The animal had been found dead two days ago in his stall at the world-famous Dreieichenhof training facility in central Germany. Included in the envelope were a map of the area and a list of the people expected to attend tomorrow's meeting near Frankfurt-a sort of postmortem committee of inquiry. He scanned it carefully. Hubertus Falckenstein he knew; everyone in the equine community was familiar with the great trainer Falckenstein, if only by reputation. He also recognized the name of Dr. Siebert , the official veterinarian for the German National Team. The other names were not familiar.
He would have to ponder Falckenstein's involvement, though. This was not a man who was easily intimidated, least of all by someone else's knowledge of horses and riders.
But for the moment Jean-Paul tossed everything back on the desk and dressed for dinner. After all, how could a man like him, a man of refinement and exquisite taste, concentrate on business when his stomach was growling?
By ten p.m. Jean-Paul had finished his meal at L'Auberge: consuming seven courses, washed down by two bottles of Lafitte Rothschild Cabernet. When he rose to leave, he had to steady himself on the table for a moment before heading for the front door.
Outside, he climbed into a taxi and instructed the driver , "Le Palais du Noir." Then he sat back to digest his meal, partially closed his weary eyes, while anticipating an evening at one of Paris' most famous brothels. He believed the trick to living a happy and fulfilling life on the road was to appreciate all the perks.
Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity outside the window. The taxi screeched to a halt, slamming Jean-Paul headfirst into the safety divider. He toppled back, grunting and stunned, vaguely aware that a dented van was half-blocking the right-of-way. Then the door beside him flew open and hands reached in. Two hands, then four. Powerful hands, grabbing him, hauling him out of the cab and hurling him into the back of the obstructive vehicle.
Although stunned, he was well aware of abruptly backing up and then rudely lurching forward as they sped away down the dark, twisting back streets of the city. He felt a sharp knee pressed cruelly into his neck, driving his face into the seat cushion, all but paralyzing his limbs. Still, enough sensation remained to feel his wrists being lashed together behind him as the buttons on his shirt started popping off. A moment later he heard a distinctive ripping sound. A strip of duct tape had been torn from its roll and slapped over his mouth. Now he could breathe only through his nose, and that wasn't enough. The whistling of his own breath filled him with horror. He panicked. His feet flailed violently as he struggled to free himself. The man sitting on his back barked out an order to his accomplice in a Slavic-sounding tongue, more like a curse. If only he could understand what they were saying. Then he felt his wallet being pulled from his jacket, and some other object, hard and cold, pushed into its place. Mon dieu, he thought. What was that? A bomb? God knew there were plenty of people who wanted him dead, but would someone really try to kill him?
Or perhaps this was a kidnapping. Alive, he would be worth a lot more money to his employer. Yes.... Yes, that must be it. If only he could speak, ask. But he could barely even breathe. And the knee now dug into his neck so savagely he felt as if his spine would break. He fought the sudden urge to throw up. How terrible it would be to suffocate on his own vomit, to die in such an undignified manner--especially if he was only being kidnapped. Panic gave way to relative calm as he pondered his predicament. He forced himself to breathe more slowly. To stop struggling.
But he could not stop thinking.
Where were they taking him...?
The van coasted to a stop by a row of thick bushes just outside two imposing cast-iron gates. The driver switched off the lights but not the engine. After a few minutes another van of the same make, model and color approached. It came to a stop and a man in uniform climbed out, placed a large key into the lock, and pushed the gates open. He then climbed back into the passenger side as it pulled away, presumably headed to one of the local patisseries. According to the surveillance documents, the guards always took their break on time. And they always stayed out for one half-hour. And most importantly, they always left the gates open behind them.
As soon as the coast was clear, the van containing Jean-Paul crept forward, silently. The windows were fogging up so the driver rolled one down to let in some fresh air. What was that stench?, thought Jean-Paul. He was a gourmet as well as a gourmand. He could not only taste and describe the differences between vintage wines, but also detect a woman's perfume from half a block away. Now, as the van drove closer to its destination, his nostrils flared wide. Chanel it wasn't!
The green belt surrounding the Parc Zoologique de Paris was a favorite walking tour for Parisians at all hours of the day and night. The regulars had grown accustomed to hearing strange and sometimes frightening sounds emanating from inside the walled compound. Extraordinary noises made ordinary by familiarity.
But tonight there was a new addition to this cacophonous symphony, a sound that stopped even the most preoccupied walkers dead in their tracks. Entwined within the occasional elephant trumpeting, monkeys squealing, exotic birds calling, and the thunderous roaring of lions, there arose a distinctly different sound.
A piercing scream. A shrill note repeated over and over and over again. Not an animal's.
But human. One of Jean-Paul's questions had been answered. He was at the Zoo.