Fortune's Obsession

By Jerome Reyer

Fortunes obsession is the story of a young man who stumbles into a web of intrigue, danger and romance after innocently taking some snapshots on a sunny day in New York Citys Central Park. The novel follows him on a breathtaking journey to save Americas space program.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 29, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469109756

Jerome Reyer

Jerome Reyer is a successful businessman, who, like the protagonist of the novel, sold his business for a good sum of money. There, however, the similarity ends. Mr. Reyer now lives in Florida and is himself a management consultant, who is freelancing at this time. He has been, in his life, a soldier, a corporation president, the president of a large national trade association and the Chairman of the Board of the largest country club in America. He is currently at work on his second novel, which is about a terrorist plot to blow up the Kennedy Space Center.

Book preview

FORTUNE’S

OBSESSION

Jerome Reyer

Copyright © 2001 by Jerome Reyer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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Dedication

To my mother,

who taught me early in life

that books were my best friends.

Peter Fortune had a lust for life. At age thirty eight, he had not yet married, although he had come close on several occasions. He was just too busy enjoying life. It wasn’t that he was a partier or a drinker or even an habitual womanizer. He was a twentieth century renaissance man. He had, at various times of his life, taken up flying, scuba diving, sky diving, skiing and automobile racing. He had one passion, however, that superseded all others.

Photography had become his great joy. Peter lived in a spacious, two bedroom, two bath apartment on the west side of Manhattan. One of the bathrooms had been converted to a high tech darkroom with state of the art equipment. The second bedroom was devoted also to his great passion. One of the walls was paneled entirely in cork for viewing his shots, and the rest of the room was a mini-studio. Peter was a reasonably good architect and a partner in a firm specializing in converting lofts to apartment buildings. He made an excellent living and could easily indulge himself in all of his very expensive hobbies. There was no woman in his present life that he cared to be with at the moment. At those times of his life, he tended to plunge himself into his work and his hobbies.

On a Saturday afternoon in October, Peter packed a thirty five millimeter camera with a 70 to 200 Millimeter zoom lens and a motor drive and set out for Central Park. He loved to take people’s pictures without their knowledge in good old fashioned black and white. There were endless marvelous photo opportunities in the park and just thinking of them exhilarated and enthused him.

There were food vendors and their customers, balloon vendors, street musicians, dogs galore, children galore and hundreds of thousands of interesting people. Peter had won contests with many of his Central Park shots and even sold some to publications. His work was so good that most knowledgeable people thought that he could easily switch professions.

He stationed himself on a high rock at a distance where the telephoto lens would give him good shots without him being noticed by the person he was photographing.

By the time he was finished shooting, he had expended five thirty six exposure rolls. He photographed countless pretty women, many street musicians, vendors and passers by. The time went by quickly and with each shot he felt like an artist creating a work of art. He composed his pictures twice; once with the lens and once with the enlarger, oftentimes cropping a shot so that what seemed like a minor portion of the picture at the time he was taking it, turned into the central subject of the photo.

When there were eighteen shots left, he had exhausted his supply of subjects and was ready to leave. He looked around for something to shoot off his remaining eighteen shots and settled for a large bench on which were seated a bevy of interesting people. From left to right, there were: An elegant looking man with swarthy skin and a jet black goatee and mustache under a bald pate who sat rigidly, staring into space, a briefcase at his feet. A handsome man of about thirty also rigidly staring into space also with a briefcase placed at his feet. A heavy black woman reading a bible. A couple dressed like sixties hippies, she with a long dress and flower child hat and he with long hair, Fu Manchu mustache and tank top.

A very old lady leaning on a cane talking to a young woman holding a small child on her lap and lastly a young man with thick glasses reading a book. Peter thought the group had endless photographic possibilities both as a group and individuals and shot a series of eighteen shots over a period of time, waiting for different movements from each person.

When the shooting was finished, he tossed the camera case over his shoulder, bought an ice cream cone and walked happily toward his apartment on the West Side. While others were going out on the town on Saturday night, Peter Fortune would work in his dark room till the late hours.

Upon arriving at his apartment, he put the rolls into developing tanks instantly. He wanted them to be dry so that he could spend the evening working on the enlarger. This evening would be a great joy to him. A photographer searching for a perfect picture is like a surfer looking for the perfect wave.

* * *

Ibrahim Fahd was officially an illegal alien. He had, however, any number of documents that would prove his right to be in America. He had passports from three Arab countries which were acceptable to the United States. In addition, he possessed documents showing him to be an American citizen of Syrian ancestry. He lived in a spacious apartment on the twenty ninth floor of a luxury building overlooking the east river. Fahd was a respected and well liked tenant who was polite and friendly to all of his neighbors and much loved by the local tradesmen in the neighborhood. His cover was that he was an importer of fine silks. He maintained an office in a building on third avenue under the name of Trans Orient Silks, Inc. Within the office was a secretary who answered calls and maintained a computer and fax machine.

He sat down and looked into the briefcase. His afternoon trip to Central Park had indeed been profitable. The documents in the briefcase were worth at least one hundred times more than he paid for them. His sources in Libya and Iraq would literally kill for what was inside the briefcase. He poured himself a brandy and lit a Havana cigar which was smuggled in by a source in Cuba. He ran his fingers down the fine, dark blue pin striped suit and felt his silk shirt and tie. Roughly estimated, including his shoes, he was dressed in three thousand dollars worth of custom made clothes. He really enjoyed the good life he had made for himself and while he was in no one’s employ in particular, he had dealt at various times with Libya, Iraq, the PLO and other middle east terrorist organizations.

His security was excellent and his contacts had to go through three levels of highly coded associates to get in touch with him at all. He truly felt that he could exist for years in his current situation without ever being compromised. On Monday morning he would take the contents of the briefcase to his office and start negotiations with several clients. He never did business from his apartment and never made phone calls of a business nature or received mail there. As far as everyone from the doorman to the mailman knew, he was a well respected, much loved, Arab-American businessman.

He glanced at his watch. It was nearly seven o clock and the delectable Dara would soon arrive. She was one of the prize possessions his wealth had afforded him. She towered over him by four inches and was slim and blonde with perfect breasts. She was twenty-nine years old and he literally owned her. He kept her in a luxury apartment thirty blocks north, also overlooking the east river. She drove a Porsche 928 and had an unbelievable cache of furs and jewelry. In return for all of the luxuries he had given her, she was expected to be totally his and at his beck and call at all times. At such times that he chose not to be in her company, she was to be unquestioning until such time that he summoned her and when that happened she was to be instantly available. He had, in his many years in both the United States and England, developed very western tastes. The thought of going back to his native Egypt, where he had abandoned a wife and five children was abhorrent to him. He had, through his own cleverness and his fine connections, literally disappeared off the face of the earth.

* * *

Dara Morgan, nee Doris Murkowski, sat naked at her dressing table, brushing and re-brushing her long, glistening blonde tresses again and again. She admired herself in the mirror.

Her tall, lithe body was perfect, not a blemish on it. Her skin glistened and was tanned to just the right shade. Her aquiline nose, high cheekbones and large blue eyes, made for a visage of great beauty. Dara was truly beautiful and had learned as early as junior high school that beautiful girls, if they played their cards right, could have anything they wanted . . . . anything!

She considered herself neither immoral nor evil. She was intelligent and had a college degree to prove it. When she moved from her family’s home in western Pennsylvania after graduation, she fully intended to rise legitimately in the business world but almost instantly found that she could use her feminine wiles to climb more quickly up the ladder of affluence. After several highly profitable affairs with well heeled men, she was introduced to Ibrahim Fahd at a cocktail party. He was instantly stricken with her and after a few dates, offered her the life which she now led. While not especially physically attracted to him, the performances she gave and the compensation received for same was the ultimate turn-on for her. She indulged Fahd all of his sexual fantasies, which involved all forms of sex, vaginal, anal and oral.

She was his complete love slave and continued to satisfy him completely. It never occurred to her that she was a high priced hooker and she led an extremely erudite existence. She read books, attended the theater and concerts and did oil painting and sculpture in her apartment studio to protect herself against boredom in between summonses from Fahd.

She walked naked to the telephone, her movements like a long, graceful animal and dialed Fahd.

Hello darling, are you waiting for me? I can’t wait to see you, I need the feel of your strong body against mine.

Fahd answered, Oh my sweet, get over here quickly, you know you drive me insane when you talk like that.

She smiled a knowing smile to herself in the mirror.

Oh my love, I’m going to drain you dry tonight.

If she felt ridiculous, spouting such dialogue, she knew that the returns were worth it. She blew a kiss into the phone and hung up, still smiling and shook her head.

She slipped on a black jersey dress. Underneath, she wore black panties, a garter belt and black net stockings. She wore no bra. She liberally doused herself with perfume before dressing, making especially sure to saturate her blonde pubic hair.

She slipped out the door and took the elevator to the street level. The doormen always gave her extra special attention as they were heavily tipped my Mr. Fahd, who made sure that everyone knew that she belonged to him. She opted for a cab tonight, which was immediately summoned by the doorman, who ran into the middle of the street to summon it for her. She knew that she would return early the next morning, as Fahd preferred her not sleep over and the Porsche was just as well left in the building’s garage.

* * *

Lt. Commander (ret.) Farley Collins sat back in the first class seat, heading for Orlando. The briefcase he clutched tightly to his lap contained two hundred thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills. He had spent several hours in his hotel room counting it.

The fact that he was betraying his country bothered him not at all.

He had a rather undistinguished military career in naval aviation, until he was chosen for the astronaut program. He had spent five years at Cape Canaveral and had constantly been passed over for a flight in spite of his intricate training. Finally, he was told that he had not passed psychological requirements. This of course had destroyed his naval career and he had retired at age forty one with twenty years and four month’s service. He had departed with information that was highly classified, which he had smuggled out piece by piece. He had been put in touch with Fahd by a man he met in a hotel cocktail lounge one night, to whom he vented his spleen while very drunk. When he had met several emissaries and finally passed muster, the deal was made and the exchange of briefcases arranged. He was told that if the information was not genuine, that he would be in no uncertain terms, hunted down and destroyed.

He had been married briefly and had no children and in approaching middle age, had no friends. He was basically a loner during his time in the Navy, keeping to himself whenever he could. He was a fine flier and was technically one of the most proficient of his breed. He had a brilliant mind that could cut through mathematical and scientific problems like a sharp blade. His problem was that he possessed a large ego without the personality to go with it.

Consequently, he saw men of lesser ability and knowledge, go on to command positions, while he was fitted into slots that involved technical expertise. What he was not, was a team player. This was the part of his psychological profile that washed him out of the astronaut program. He was a bitter and crushed man with a psychopathic desire for revenge. He had begged Fahd’s contacts to let him be part of whatever it was they were going to do but here too was rejected. Since retiring from the Navy, he had held two high paying jobs in high technology companies and while they were satisfied with his technical knowledge, he could not fit in with their research and development teams. He spent much of his time in the small house he rented near Orlando, drinking heavily and sleeping more hours than he needed. His brain felt like it was about to explode from his frustrations and he walked the tightrope between sanity and insanity. He had absolutely no idea who the man who passed him the briefcase was but he knew they knew everything about him.

* * *

The developed film was dry and ready for printing and the first step was to make contact sheets. Peter cut the negatives into six exposure strips and placed them in the glass frame, which when exposed on the enlarger, made a sheet of thirty six negative size prints. When these were inspected with a magnifying glass, the photographer could see which prints he wanted to enlarge and how he wanted to crop them for creative composition.

He carefully inspected each print under the magnifier and found several immensely printable shots. There was a young hot dog vendor, receiving a ticket from a policeman who could have been sent from central casting to play the mean cop. There was a beautiful young woman eating a peach. A balloon vendor selling a balloon to a small boy and countless other photos of note.

When he got to the last pictures in which he shot out the roll on the group sitting on the park bench, he carefully inspected each person and groups of persons in the shot to see if there might be a picture within a picture. It wasn’t until his third time through the shots that he noted the two men with their hands on each other’s briefcase. At first he laughed, thinking that each had mistakenly taken the other’s case. The next time he looked, he saw a sequence of five frames in which it was obviously a purposeful act. In another negative, the two furtively walked off in opposite directions. Peter placed all of the frames under his large magnifying square and poured himself a Scotch on the rocks. He studied the shots over and over again and was convinced he was witness to some sort of crime or espionage.

* * *

Dara rang Fahd’s doorbell and when he opened it had a look of joy on his face. He took one of her slender hands kissed it and literally danced her into the room.

My darling, he said, I am not at liberty to give you the details but I am in the midst of the largest business deal of my life. I will be able to heap so many more luxuries upon you, my sweet one. You will be like a queen.

The aphrodisiac of greater wealth coursed through her body and she pushed him down on his large, white leather sectional and opened the kimono in which he came to the door. His squat body covered with dark, bristly hair lay before her, already erect with desire. She knelt before him on the floor and devoured him, hardly hearing his moans and cries as she went about her very professional skills.

Later, as they sat on the couch sipping champagne from silver goblets, Fahd spoke.

Tomorrow, my love, I want you to do a very important errand for me, I am going to give you an envelope. You will drive to Paramus, New Jersey and give it to the person who answers the door at the address I will give you. He, in turn, will give you another envelope which you will bring instantly to my office. You will sleep here tonight and my driver will drop you at your garage. Do not go to your apartment. Go directly to the address I give you.

Dara knew better than to protest or complain about a change of underwear. She had long ago learned that her blind obedience paid off in enormous wealth.

The next morning, Fahd’s driver picked her up and drove her to her garage. The driver watched her until she was in the car and on her way. She had been instructed that the second envelope might take some time and that she was to wait for an answer no matter how long it took. What she did not know was that the envelope contained a description and an asking price for the information on Cape Canaveral that Fahd had received from Collins.

* * *

All day Sunday, Peter puzzled over the photographs. Obviously, something sinister was going down . . . . but what? His first inclination was that it was none of his business but the longer he thought about it, the more he thought that it might be a Police matter. He decided to show the shots to the Detective Squad at the local precinct.

The detective he sat across the desk from looked nothing like anyone’s idea of a detective. His name was Nicholas Rapuano and he was thin and slight. His longish hair fell over his ears and his nicotine stained fingers were topped off by nails bitten to the quick.

He wore jeans and a tattered sweatshirt. Only his plastic identification badge, gun and handcuffs gave a clue that he was a policeman. Rapuano looked at the photos, shaking his head.

Now let me get this straight. You want us to open an investigation based on a picture of two creeps switching briefcases in the park? In case you don’t know it, Mr. Fortune . . . . this is not a felony . . . . it isn’t even a misdemeanor. This is fuckin’ New York City. People are killing each other and ripping each other off all the time. He slapped the photos down in front of Peter, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling and muttering to himself.

In other words, Peter said, You’re telling me to take a hike.

Now you got it, Rapuano said, his smile showing jagged chipped teeth.

Thank you very much for your support, Peter said facetiously. It’s always nice to know the finest are looking out for us.

Rapuano got up and walked across the room, rummaging through a file. Have a nice day, Mr. Fortune.

Peter took the envelope with the photographs and walked toward his building. The more he thought about it, the more he understood what the detective was saying. He guessed that he was a fool for even pursuing it. His fascination continued, however and when he arrived at home, he blew up the entire sequence, put them on the dryer and hung them on his corkboard wall. He spent the rest of the afternoon studying the photos until the two men were firmly implanted in his mind. When he went to sleep on Sunday evening, he awoke fitfully several times during the night. He had a repeating dream where the two men switched briefcases again and again. He awoke for good a five a.m. A hot shower and several cups of steaming black coffee took the bugs out of his head. He drank the coffee in his studio, staring at the photographs until his eyes hurt.

* * *

Dara rolled the Porsche through the city streets, yearning for a stretch where she could open it up. She felt at her freest when she was speeding along an interstate. The power of the automobile was yet another aphrodisiac. She thought nothing of the envelope that was beside her on the passenger seat. She truly believed that Fahd was a wealthy silk broker and that she was taking a bill of materials for perusal by a client. She turned the radio to a Spanish language station and put the radio on full bass and high volume. The beat of the salsa music gave her a light and breezy feeling which added to her euphoria. She truly enjoyed being affluent, having come from a family in which her steel worker father had to scrape and save and work himself to an early death at fifty five , in order to clothe, feed and educate his family. She thought of her father often and of how proud he would have been of her wealth, if not the way she achieved it. Sometimes, in weaker moments, she thought of a normal existence with a young, attractive man with whom she would spend the rest of her life in connubial bliss. Someday, she would like to have children of her own and give them what her parents couldn’t give her. For this reason, with the advice of Fahd and other financially adept friends, she was putting away money in solid investments for her future.

Five miles past the George Washington bridge, she was finally able to achieve the speed that thrilled her. With her state of the art radar detector on, she brought the speedometer to eighty five. The windows and the electric sliding roof were open and the wind ran through her long blonde hair while the salsa beat provided the background. When she reached her exit in Paramus, she was disappointed.

The address turned out to be a modest white house on an unpretentious street. She took the envelope in hand and rang the bell. When the door opened a stout, middle eastern looking man with a full black beard flecked with grey opened the door. He wore a T-shirt which was stained and dingy and his wrinkled trousers hung below his pot belly. He exhibited an unsavory smile and showed stained teeth. He leered at her as if stripping her naked with his eyes. She was suddenly conscious that she wore her dress over her naked body with no underwear or stockings, having no clean underthings this morning. She was suddenly frightened and would have liked to wait outside but was ever obedient of Fahd’s bidding. This kind of blind obedience had made her a rich woman and she wasn’t about to jeopardize that.

She was led to a couch and motioned to sit, while the heavy man read what was in the envelope. During the reading, he kept looking up at her with that lascivious smile. She was conscious of the eerie quiet in the house and of the smell of lamb. The combination of sensory stimuli, the heavy, frightening man, the quiet dark ambiance of the house and the smell of long ago cooked lamb, all but nauseated her as she sat uncomfortably on the couch.

After reading the letter, he walked to a phone and dialed, all the while looking at her with satanic lust. He spoke Arabic fast