The Samoa Seduction

by Alan L. Moss

  George knew when something sounded too sweet, it was time to pass.

  Why would a stranger offer to spend that kind of money just to talk?

  “Who do you work for, Mr. Ponsonby?”

  “I’m the chief executive officer for Health-Cell Corporation. We’re a small medical research firm located in Ashburton. I trust we can leave the rest of our conversation until you arrive in New Zealand?”

  George paused as he thought about the man’s proposition. It sounded interesting, but he just spent three weeks away from the office and his most promising case required him to be in Honolulu for several weeks.

  George lifted his feet off the trash can and swung around. He moved forward in his chair and placed his feet on the floor.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to count me out, Mr. Ponsonby. I just got back to the office from another assignment off Island and I have firm commitments here on Oahu.”

  George waited for Ponsonby to sign off. Instead, a prolonged silence followed. George shook his head and held the receiver at arm’s length, concluding the CEO wasn’t playing with a full deck.

  Finally, Ponsonby spoke.

  “Well, Mr. Partain, certainly I appreciate loyalty to one’s present clients. However, if I could impose on your patience for just a few more minutes, let me say this assignment has the potential for once-in-a-lifetime remuneration. At the conclusion of your work, there would be no economic necessity for you to do anything but enjoy life.”

  ***

  George slept most of the way to New Zealand, but still managed to polish off four free drinks and devour enough shrimp to satisfy any living being. Within an hour of his arrival in Auckland, he boarded a flight to Christchurch Airport. After the thirty-minute trip, he retrieved his suitcase and golf clubs, went through customs, and made his way to the Hertz counter.

  Ponsonby had reserved an Acura for him. George got behind the wheel and followed a pre-marked map down Highway No. 1 to Ashburton and his hotel. Tired from his long day of travel, but enthusiastic about the coming weekend, he checked in and got a good night’s sleep.

  It was summer in New Zealand and George woke to a beautiful, crisp Saturday morning. The temperature was predicted to reach seventy-three degrees by mid-afternoon. From Honolulu, George made arrangements for Saturday and Sunday tee times.

  After breakfast, he walked to the pro shop, passing lush gardens full with the bright colors of summer on New Zealand’s South Island. He’d be playing with a twosome from Australia. Both men had business in Ashburton and looked forward to golf before turning to work on Monday.

  The three men hit it off fairly well. At night they met in the Turf Sports Bar where they downed more than their share of draft beer and daily roast. The conversations stayed informal. No one had the bad taste to bring up anything more serious than the day’s more interesting golf shots.

  By seven o’clock Sunday evening, George retreated to his room. He lay on his bed enjoying the glow from the five drafts he had with dinner and the money won from his weekend of golf.

  Before leaving Honolulu, he checked out Gregory Ponsonby. He was a New Zealand businessman with a reputation of living on the edge. Twice divorced, he was asked to leave an investment firm he managed due to questionable dealings. He was never charged with any white-collar crimes but came close more than once.

  To stay alert while waiting for Ponsonby’s call, George picked up the hotel book on the Ashburton District. Recommended summer activities included paragliding, hang-gliding, a jet-boat tour of the Rakaia River, rafting in the Rangitata and Rakaia River gorges, kayaking, salmon fishing, fly-fishing, hot air ballooning, and horse trekking around Lake Coleridge. These activities would be wasted on him, George thought.

  About to give in to his fatigue, the telephone rang, instantly providing a second wind. Rolling over to the other side of the bed, George picked up the receiver.

  "Hello, this is George Partain.”

  “George, this is Gregory Ponsonby. How was your flight and weekend?”

  “Both were fine,” George answered. “I passed your offices driving down from Christchurch. What time would you like to meet tomorrow?”

  “Well,” Ponsonby responded, “there’s been a slight change in plans. Our topics are extremely sensitive, so the board of directors wants our discussions to take place away from the office.”

  “Fine,” George answered, with impatience seeping into his voice. “You know,” he continued, “if this work you have in mind is for you, personally, I need to know. If it’s for Health-Cell, I need to know that, too.”

  “You can rest assured this work is for the company and, as I said previously, it will be very lucrative employ-ment.”

  George contemplated Ponsonby’s statement.

  “Let’s get to it then.”

  “I want you to rise by four in the morning and drive north on Route 77 to Methven. About a mile outside of town you’ll see a sign for Tiraki Balloon Safaris. Make the next left and follow the dirt road until you see Tiraki’s cabin. I’ll meet you by five.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. You expect me to discuss this matter in a hot air balloon?”

  “It might sound strange but I’ve used the balloon several times for high-level discussions, no pun intended. It’s quiet and private, with no interruptions. The Central Canterbury Plains are New Zealand’s finest ballooning location. We’re scheduled to take the Aerostar Aurora S-49, a three-person balloon. You’ll marvel at how our plains become an incredible patchwork of color, with the Southern Alps off in the distance.

  “We’ll take off about five-thirty. Our business should take about an hour. You can enjoy the rest of the ride, which should be finished before seven.”

  “What about the pilot?” George asked. “How do we protect the confidential nature of our conversations from him?”

  “I use the same pilot for all these flights. Tony understands as soon as the confidentiality of these trips is compromised, they’ll cease. He’ll not ask or know who you are. He’ll insert ear plugs before we take off and continue to wear them for the entire flight.”

  Although miffed at the unconventional form of this meeting, George couldn’t help but be impressed by the preparations and substantial expense. If indicative of the potential payoff, he best be patient and play along.

  “Fine, Gregory, I’ll be up before dawn tomorrow and meet you at five.”

  One reservation George left unsaid was his fear of heights. It wasn’t good policy for a private detective to admit to that kind of weakness. Looking down from any tall structure brought terror. Airplanes were okay as long as he took an aisle seat, but a hot air balloon with its small wicker basket and inability to control lateral movement could be a problem.

  On the other hand, George had no other way to get himself out from under his mountain of debt. He decided to get another good night’s sleep and focus on the job tomorrow.

  Fuck the view.

  He would keep his eyes on Ponsonby and worry about heights another day.

  At least, that was the plan.

  CHAPTER 21

  UP, UP, AND AWAY

  January 8, 2001

  Ashburton, New Zealand

  Morning came quickly. George walked from the hotel toward his car. A hint of light rose from the distance revealing the colorful gardens that surround the entrance to the golf course. If his business worked out, this hotel could become a pleasant diversion.

  How he would handle his acrophobia continued to dog him. He pictured himself huddled on the floor of the balloon basket, begging to go back; in which case, he could kiss his big payday goodbye and return to the creditors about to crush him.

  Driving up Route No. 77, George wondered what Ponsonby had in mind. It wouldn’t be surprising if some type of fraudulent investment scheme was involved. In any case, he would listen to the man’s story and decide after thinking it through. Regardless of the money, if it was clearly illegal, he would opt out. Debts or not, he had no interest in sitting b
ehind bars.

  After forty minutes on the road, George spotted the Tiraki sign. He turned left down the dirt road. A small but neat cabin and storage hangar lay ahead. He navigated the road to a grass parking area, pulled in, and got out of his car. He assumed the blue Jaguar in the lot belonged to Ponsonby.

  He found the balloon on the other side of the hangar, inflated and tethered to the ground. It sported a saw-tooth design in red, yellow, green, and black.

  A distinguished voice pierced the morning air.

  “They really are quite spectacular.”

  George turned to see a thin, six-footer with closely cut salt-and-pepper hair walking toward him. The man must have been in his mid-forties, with pale blue eyes, designer clothes, and a smooth manner.

  Within seconds, Ponsonby approached with an outstretched hand.

  “We’re grateful you’d come all this way to discuss our problem. Tony is ready when we are. He’ll serve tea and hot buns once we’re airborne.”

  “Good to meet you in person,” George said. “Let’s get going.”

  Walking to the cabin, the two men projected a disparate picture, Ponsonby, tall and polished with styled hair and George, short, overweight, and balding.

  Ponsonby entered the cabin and George stood outside, staring at the balloon. He could sense the edges of a panic attack closing in on him. Within minutes, three young men came out with Ponsonby. Quietly, they walked to the balloon. Ponsonby opened the gate.

  George took a deep breath and stepped away.

  “Sorry, Gregory, I should have skipped my coffee this morning.”

  Ponsonby smiled.

  “In the cabin and to your right.”

  Fighting off his dread, George entered the cabin and stepped into the washroom. Before using the facilities, he fumbled through his pockets and found the prescription bottle of D-cycloserine. He hesitated taking the new drug, but experiencing shortness of breath and nausea had no option.

  Waiting as long as possible to give the drug a chance to work, finally, George exited the cabin, approached the basket, and stepped in. Tony and Ponsonby followed.

  Tony lit the burners with a striker similar to a welder’s tool and the three men from the cabin unhooked the tethers. Before George could react, the balloon jerked upward and they were hundreds of feet in the air moving swiftly across the plains. The detective planted each hand in stability straps designed to assist riders during unusual turbulence.

  Ponsonby read the fear in George’s eyes.

  “It takes a few minutes to adjust to balloon flights. Before long, you’ll feel right at home.”

  Tony fastened a thermos, two mugs, and a plate with four buns on a small slotted table attached to the floor. George looked for Tony’s earplugs and found them in place. Tony returned to his station at the burner.

  “This quiet will only be interrupted when Tony gives the envelope a shot to keep us up,” Ponsonby said. “It’ll take sixty to ninety minutes to reach the foothills and our landing area. Our chase crew, following us below, will pull in the balloon, deflate and pack it, and give us a ride back to the cabin.”

  George focused on two small freckles about halfway down Ponsonby’s long, thin nose. Eventually, the detective’s fear began to release its hold. He let go of one strap and managed to clumsily consume pieces of a warm sticky bun and a few swigs of tea. Finally, his anxiety attack seemed to pass and the two men began their discussions, each leaning one arm on the edge of the basket.

  “As you know, I’m the CEO of Health-Cell Corporation,” Ponsonby said. “We’re three years old and we employ more than a hundred people. Although I’m paid well, I could have accepted better-paying offers. The reason I took the Health-Cell position is the financial promise of stem cell research.

  “I’m not a medical person. I don’t know the details of how all these things work. What I do know is medical advances that can save and extend human life will make some people wealthy.”

  Ignoring the unpredictable motion of the balloon, Ponsonby removed his arm from the edge of the basket and began to use hand gestures for emphasis.

  “During my first year with the firm, I recruited the best, most creative researchers. This race, like any race to riches, depends on who has the brightest stars. We got into costly bidding wars with some of the big boys, paid unspeakable bonuses, and committed to future payments we couldn’t afford. We even landed the world’s most respected stem cell scientist from the University of Wisconsin.

  “The expenditures were unconscionable, but, I was told the breakthroughs would come quickly once the right people were on board. Just when we thought…”

  George waved his free hand as if trying to stop traffic.

  “I hate to interrupt, but you need to help me with stem cells. I’ve heard of them but I’m not really sure what you’re talking about.”

  “Good,” Ponsonby responded. “Effective communi-cation is an important key to sound relationships.

  “Let me see, where to begin? Scientists have known about stem cells for more than a hundred years. These cells make up the foundation of your entire body. Each begins life like a blank microchip, a blank cell with no specific function. Then, certain genetic and biochemical signals cause them to take on a task necessary to the body’s operation. Some of these become working pancreatic cells, heart cells, kidney cells, lung cells, and so on.”

  Ponsonby’s enthusiasm grew as he delved into his subject. His eyes shone brighter.

  “In the late 1990s, human embryonic stem cells were first cultured in the laboratory. That’s when things got interesting. Let’s say you have a patient who has Alzheimer’s disease, Parkinson’s, cancer, or juvenile diabetes. In each case, you have cells that don’t perform as intended.

  “With the right knowledge and technology, you could implant stem cells programmed to neutralize the malfunctioning cells and properly perform the intended tasks. These rescue cells, as we call them, would rapidly reproduce as normal cells. They’d solve the problem causing the disease and its symptoms.”

  Ponsonby shifted his position against the basket.

  “Of course, what I’ve just described is the ultimate objective, the dream. Many roadblocks stand in the way of this goal. For example, where do we get all these blank cells? How do we program them? How do we stop the body from rejecting them? How do we stop the immune system, or some other system, from malfunctioning, possibly destroying or mutating the rescue cells? All of these puzzles remain for stem cell researchers to solve.”

  Ponsonby paused with a questioning look. George nodded in agreement.

  “So, just when we thought the company would go under due to our financial burden, a young researcher named Tiri Matazi began to make incredible leaps forward. Focusing on juvenile diabetes, he figured out how to manufacture an unlimited supply of blank stem cells and transform them into functioning pancreatic cells. First in mice and then human stem cells, he learned the key to producing insulin.

  “He developed a revolutionary approach to rejection. Instead of convincing the body not to reject implanted foreign cells, his protocol mimics the body’s own cells. It defines a person’s cell markers and recreates those markers in the implanted cells. Rejection isn’t an issue because the body believes they are its cells.

  “Finally, based upon his test data, the immune systems of diabetes patients will not destroy or alter the rescue cells he implants because their markers indicate they’re operating properly. According to Tiri, such destruction occurs when the immune system receives a false message that cells are mutating and need to be eliminated.”

  Ponsonby stopped for a few seconds, looking over the side and shaking his head.

  “Ironically, Matazi is a young Maori native who’s one of the lowest-paid researchers on staff. I recruited him myself out of the University of Canterbury, our local university. He had terrific grades and excellent references, but no other job offers. Now, he’s standing on the edge of greatness.

  “Regardless, while this p
rogress continued, we were desperate to raise the money needed to support his efforts. We mortgaged our building, took out second and third mortgages on our homes, and agreed to loans at ridiculously high rates. We’re convinced Matazi has the cure for juvenile diabetes. Furthermore, with some time and additional support, his methods could produce similar results against other diseases.

  “Now, what will this mean? There are seventeen million people in your United States alone with diabetes. It’s a leading cause of death and disability, and it costs one-hundred and thirty-two billion dollars per year to treat. Type 1 diabetes can cause blindness, kidney disease, cardiovascular disease, and nerve damage, which can lead to other serious complications, including amputation. The afflicted must constantly monitor their blood sugar and administer shots of insulin. The impact of this illness on children and adults is nothing less than devastating.”

  Immersed in the discussion, George lost sight of their lofty locale.

  “Now, we can offer these people a cure,” Ponsonby continued. “Not merely a treatment like insulin shots, which must be administered daily and cannot mute many of the disease’s destructive effects, but a one-time cure.

  “Doctors will follow our procedures to analyze a patient’s cell markers. They’ll customize and transplant our manufactured rescue cells. Within a day or so, the patient’s pancreas will normalize. They’ll produce the right amount of insulin needed for the body to absorb and use sugar for energy. From that point on, the patient will be cured, live a normal life.”

  George closed his eyes and rubbed his left hand over his face.

  “This story sounds like one with a happy ending. I don’t see the problem. So, you have financial difficulties; join the club. You have a product that’s a potential gold mine. So, you go to a bank or one of the big pharmaceutical companies and swing a deal. Give up some of your future earnings. How much money can you spend in a lifetime?”