by Alan L. Moss
Ponsonby maintained a serious pose.
“I’m afraid it’s not that easy. No one will lend us additional money until we complete a three-year test protocol. Our scientists know we’ve solved all the problems, but they’re also aware that no pharmaceutical company can market the cure until government approval is issued. The agencies in charge of such things will not bless radically new processes until they’ve been evaluated over time. No one wants to risk a scandal and endless lawsuits.
“We’ve also put feelers out to our competitors. The conditions they’d set for financial support would be too stringent and the Health-Cell name would disappear. The personal profits we’d receive wouldn’t go beyond six figures.”
Ponsonby’s face reddened and he smashed his fist against the edge of the basket. Fear returned to George’s eyes and his right hand grasped the nearest stability strap.
“We cannot accept such an outcome,” Ponsonby protested. Then, he calmed down and continued.
“Which brings us to why we’re asking for your help? We know this assignment would not be routine for your agency. However, we also know you have a habit of finding unique and effective solutions to difficult problems, including raising capital for unconventional deals. While you’re an honest man, I hope you’ll be reasonable in assisting us to prevent a terrible injustice to our dedicated scientists and administrators.”
George kept quiet while thinking it through. If Health-Cell had developed a cure for juvenile or Type 1 diabetes, he might find a way to keep the company going during testing. As he was sure Ponsonby realized, it would mean selling the cure on the black market prior to the issuance of final test results. Health-Cell personnel would have to keep clear of direct participation in the scheme.
George, almost relaxed leaning against the basket, responded.
“You know,” he said, motioning with both hands, “with today’s communications, it‘s almost impossible to keep anything secret. If this cure turned out to be a dud or caused problems for a patient, we’d end up in prison. Are you willing to take that chance?"
Ponsonby didn’t flinch, facing George squarely.
“My daughter is thirteen years old. I love her more than my life. She was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes at age seven. Eleven months ago I had one of our scientists administer the treatment, implant rescue cells. Jill has been well ever since. No outside insulin, no side effects, no nothing, just a beautifully normal child. We know what we have is the real thing.”
Ponsonby took a deep breath.
“You raise the cash we need and we’ll provide you with a limited number of cure kits so you can earn an incredible amount of money.”
George poured another cup of tea and took a sip.
“First, I need to know what kind of dollars we’re talking about. How much do you need to keep going for the next three years?”
Ponsonby answered without delay.
“Assuming we’re forced to do the full three years of testing, with no exceptions, we estimate fifty-one million will be required. These dollars need to be provided to us up front. We’ll not release any of the cure kits until we’ve been fully funded. However, once we receive our dollars, you’ll be free to set the retail price. We don't care how much you and your investors make.”
There you have it, George thought. He’d have the difficult job of raising this enormous sum for Health-Cell, plus payments to transact the black market sales and administer the cure. However, once those cures had been sold, he could pay back his investors and pocket the profits. Best of all, he’d have the freedom to set the price of a product for which some wealthy patients would pay almost anything.
The key would be to select a small group of affluent patients and ensure their silence. The price for the cure would have to be enough so the investors wouldn’t be tempted to push the envelope too far.
The scheme would be illegal. However, if Health-Cell’s discovery was, in fact, the cure for diabetes, what harm would they be doing?
Those with big money have always been first. By having the means to purchase expensive cars, the wealthy were first to receive the benefits of anti-lock breaking, air bags, and GPS technology. This would be no different.
George shifted his position against the basket and addressed Ponsonby.
“Well, Gregory, it is an interesting proposition. It’ll take some time to put the pieces together. How long before the fifty-one million is required?”
A hint of confidence flashed from Ponsonby’s eyes.
“We can hold out until June or July. Then, we’ll have to go begging to our competitors.”
“Give me a few weeks and I’ll see what I can do.”
Ponsonby struck an evangelical pose.
“George, there’s one more thing I’d like you to keep in mind. Throughout history, great medical discoveries have been made not by those who accepted conventional wisdom, but by rogue scientists like Pasteur, Salk, and now Matazi.
"If we maintain ownership of his discoveries, soon, he’ll use variations of his technique to cure other dreaded diseases — cancer, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, ALS, MS, spinal cord injuries, and various heart conditions. Your labor can speed the salvation of millions of people.
“However, if we lose control of Matazi’s work, future applications will be delayed, if not lost forever.”
CHAPTER 22
MATAUTU
January 8, 2001
Ashburton, New Zealand
George spent another night at the Ashburton Hotel planning his strategy. The risks were great, but the rewards could clear his debts and allow him to live in comfort. If Ponsonby was on the level, and if George could find a way to raise the millions, he was in.
After his meeting with Ponsonby, George sat at the small desk next to his bed. He wrote the words Galeai Matautu on a hotel note pad. Then, he called the office. His secretary answered on the second ring.
“Partain Investigations, how may I direct your call?”
“You can direct my call to the one investigator still on staff,” George said.
“Hi, Mr. Partain, how’s your New Zealand trip going?”
Joy Luahine had been with Partain for two years. George admired her work ethic, working full time in his office while attending night school and helping her family pay the bills. Her energy was matched by a pleasant personality, organizational skills, and a knack for sharing culinary treats at work.
“The trip is going fine, Joy. Can you give me the number for Galeai Matautu in Pago Pago, American Samoa? Then, transfer me to Bob.”
“Sure, Mr. P., right away.”
After she read Matautu’s phone number, he heard the transfer click and Bob Tagata picked up.
“What’s going on, George?”
“Bob, we might be working for the New Zealand firm Health-Cell. Before we get too far in, I want you to check them out more thoroughly. Who runs the place? Who’s on the board of directors? What do they do and how well do they do it? Are they publicly traded, and if so, what’s the stock worth? Anything relevant you can find.”
“Does this have to do with that character Ponsonby?”
“That’s right, and make sure you put this ahead of your other work. There may be big bucks not too far down the road.” George hung up and stared at Matautu’s telephone number. He was first deputy to the Governor of American Samoa and the Governor’s cousin. Known as a slippery character, ruthless in the protection of his boss, he was also portrayed as a man seeking to enrich his already substantial financial holdings.
Years before, the two men were on opposite sides of a divorce case in which George was assisting. The husband of his client abandoned her, secretly moving from San Diego to Pago Pago, American Samoa. George found the man and tried to get him to return home. When that failed, working with the woman’s attorney, George requested that the husband provide his wife with a third of his financial investments and the deed to their house.
When the man ignored George’s bidding, the investigator appe
aled to Matautu. The problem was that the runaway husband had been befriended by the Governor, becoming a valued advisor. So, sitting across from George in his ornately decorated office, Matautu suggested the wife simply needed to find a new partner.
Speaking softly, in conciliatory tones, George played his ace in the hole. “Well, I understand your position, but don’t you think he owes his wife some consideration? After all, they’ve been together for years and she’s invested a lot in their marriage.”
Matautu got up from his desk and walked over to Partain. His voice had an icy edge.
“Look, Mr. Partain, in Samoa we don’t take mar-riage so seriously. Men and women have been known to move from one partner to another. Tell your client to fly to Samoa and I’ll see what I can do to fix her up with a good man.” The administrator returned to his chair and paused to light a cigar, turning it slowly, puffing smoke into the air.
George cleared his throat and peered through the smoke at this man who was about to experience the limits of his power. With a new confidence in his voice, he lowered the boom. “Look, Mr. Matautu, I had hoped we could resolve this matter amicably. Before I left for Samoa, I happened to mention this case to Chuck Matison, the Justice Department’s Assistant Prosecutor in Hawaii. You know, I do a lot of work for that office.
“Chuck said he’s heard of similar cases of husbands fleeing to Samoa to avoid United States divorce law. In fact, he indicated if we’re not able to reach a satisfactory agreement, he might use this case to launch an investigation of flagrant abuse of power by a territorial administration.” George was bluffing but Matautu couldn’t know it. He couldn’t exactly call the Justice Department to ask if they were considering such an investigation. The last thing the Governor needed was another inquiry into the territorial government.
Anger and embarrassment spilled from Matautu’s eyes. He tried to push George around. Instead, the action turned the other way. Matautu placed his cigar in an ash tray and stared at a picture of the Governor on his desk.
George waited for the desired response. During an uncomfortable pause, he recalled rumors that some of those who opposed Matautu met with violent ends. However, if Matautu believed the Justice Department was aware of the case, violence would only heighten their interest in a formal investigation.
As George was about to ask for a glass of water, Matautu spoke, now in a more agreeable tone.
“What are we talking about, in terms of her demands?”
George appeared to relax. “She’s being reasonable. She wants her husband to sign over the deed to their house and to pay her just one-third of the value of his investments. My sources at the Bank of Amerika Samoa tell me he’s worth between six and seven million. She’s got a crack divorce lawyer who can have the papers drawn up in a week.”
“Let me talk to the Governor and we’ll get back to you sometime tomorrow,” Matautu said.
Figuring he had won his battle, George started to rise and held out his hand to Matautu.
“Sit,” his host ordered, motioning George down with his cigar. “Now, I see you’re a well-connected and clever fellow. I just want you to know that I have a lot of leeway in my position. Should you come upon an idea that needs funding and promises a large return, I might be of assistance.”
With Ponsonby’s proposal in hand, George would find out if Matautu could deliver on his solicitation for lucrative ideas. He would tell him just enough to get an appointment. If Matautu were anywhere else, George might be worried his position had changed. Knowing Samoa, he figured nothing would be different.
***
“Office of the Governor,” replied the secretary answering the phone.
“Galeai Matautu, please,” George responded.
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
“Yes, it’s George Partain.”
George heard a click as the secretary put him on hold. Several minutes went by and he was relieved that the long-distance charges would be on his room bill, to be paid by Health-Cell.
After ten long minutes, the secretary returned to put him through.
“Hello, Mr. George Partain,” Matautu said. “How may I help you? I hope you’re not representing another woman unable to hold on to her man.”
“No, not this time. However, the last time we saw each other you indicated you might be interested in ideas that promise, how did you say, large returns. If you’re still listening to such proposals, I have one you may want to consider. I could be in Pago Pago tomorrow afternoon, if that would be convenient.”
With all the investigations into corruption in the American Samoan Government in recent years, George was sure Matautu would have to proceed carefully. On the other hand, in spite of continued Justice Department interest in how the Samoan Government handled public funds, nothing of substance had changed. The Governor held on to his office and Matautu remained his top aide.
After a few silent minutes, Matautu responded.
“Unfortunately, George, I don’t have any openings on my calendar tomorrow. Why don’t you stop by the house on Tuesday evening, at say seven-thirty, and we’ll put some steaks on the grill and down a few bottles of Vailima.”
“That’s fine,” George said, and he hung-up the phone.
***
As his plane touched down at Samoa’s Tafuna International Airport, George couldn’t suppress the contempt he felt for the Samoan people.
They live on this beautiful South Pacific Island between Honolulu and New Zealand, yet they oppose tourism and the money it could bring. Samoans live in a Territory of the United States, but time after time, they play the role of patsies to their local representatives who rip them off royally.
George checked into the Agelu Lodge. That night, Genevieve Trudeaux, an old friend from Honolulu, joined him for dinner. She loved the Samoan people and took pride in her friendship with many of the Territory’s social and political elite. The hotel, located just off the Lanu-eka Country Club, continued to be George’s favorite destination on the Island.
After dessert and coffee, George sought her opinion of Matautu.
“Genevieve, tell me what you know of Matautu. I may be conducting some business with him.”
Speaking in hushed tones, she provided her guidance.
“Well, he’s the second most powerful man in Samoa. He lives in a modern ranch house facing Faga’itua Bay. He’s a bachelor who made it big by milking his undying support of the Governor. Called Gale by his friends, I would say he’s a clever but ruthless man.”
“Would you advise dealing with him on matters of business?” George asked.
“My friend, as long as he doesn’t think you’re trying to undermine him, you should be okay. Just watch your back at all times.”
CHAPTER 23
THE MEET
January 10, 2001
Pago Pago, American Samoa
At seven in the evening the next day, George sat in his rental car in the parking lot of the Agelu Lodge. He lowered the front windows and smelled the sweet tropical air. This Island, he thought, and his own ingenuity could be the ingredients to making millions of dollars.
George pulled out of the lot and turned onto a narrow street that led to Route No. 1, the thoroughfare following the Island’s jagged coastline from east to west. Route No. 1 runs along the southern shore of the Island of Tutuila; the mountainous, northern shore, generally, is not passable by road.
Since Faga’itua Bay was on the eastern edge of the Island, George estimated it would take about thirty minutes to reach the house. Dodging potholes, he snaked his way to the capital city of Pago Pago. Slowed by local traffic and Samoa’s family-owned buses, he raised the driver’s window to shut out dust from several small construction projects.
Once past the government buildings and shops of the city, he marveled at the Island’s huge natural harbor, created by a volcanic crater whose southern wall collapsed into the sea. That harbor was one of the main attractions to Samoa’s largest private employer, Filet of the Ocean tun
a.
After he passed the tuna cannery buildings that lined the harbor’s shores, George noted how the Island’s environment grew more prosperous. He was well aware of the high end beach houses that dotted the hills above the shore but never had the opportunity to visit one.
Of course, the Governor’s deputy would live there.
Spotting the mailbox, George turned left and drove up a steep driveway to Matautu’s house. The home was constructed of light stone extending back into the hill a long way. A matching stone patio and pool, with a clear view of the bay, fronted the house.
Matautu was on the patio lighting a charcoal grill. George opened the car door and walked to the patio.
“Welcome to my home,” Matautu shouted.
“This is quite a place you have here,” George said.
“This is my pride and joy. It’s the perfect place to get away from the pressure of keeping a Governor happy and an administration in power.”
The two men drank Vailima and ate tenderloins, as Matautu had promised. After dinner, Matautu produced two Cuban cigars from a box of twenty- four he brought back from a human rights conference in Havana.
“The conference was a farce, but the cigars were worth the price of admission,” Matautu joked. “By the way, George, if we’re to do business together, you must call me Gale. Now, what is this proposal you are bringing to me?”
Pacing back and forth by the deep end of the pool, George explained everything. How he was brought to New Zealand. How Health-Cell had mortgaged its soul for a stem cell cure for diabetes that worked, but would not produce cash for three years. How raising fifty-one million for Health-Cell would save it from bankruptcy. How, in return, Health-Cell would furnish them with diabetes stem cell cure kits that they would sell for millions on the black market. How once investors were repaid, they would pocket once-in-a-lifetime profits.
