“Makes sense,” you say. “Many American businessmen meet their foreign counterparts in Las Vegas for the very same reason.”
“Exactly,” Italo Fellini responds. “So…questions?”
“Give us a brief overview of the conference, please,” Bertram asks.
“I can give you our press brief, if that will help, but the short version is this: The world is growing while our energy supplies are dwindling. We need new, more efficient, cheaper, renewable resources for a sustainable future. Brasil is already the world leader in ethanol production, meaning we’re less dependent on oil than other countries, but that’s only a start.
“Our presenters aren’t here just to ‘go green’ but to change the world! Top scientists from around the globe will present their research findings, propose new ways forward, and—unlike any other energy conference—receive direct corporate financial attention and grants. Our Energy Summit will be packed with investors, ready to grow rich by making the world a better place. There’s been a lot of negative press about ‘corporate greed’ over the years, stories of heartless companies making profits at humanity’s expense, but what if corporations could make money by benefiting mankind? It’s the ultimate win-win, and it starts here.”
“And who are your biggest investors?” Bertram asks, taking notes.
“Oh, we have many. Petrobras, of course. They’re the largest energy company in South America and they were our first sponsor. We also have major interest from British Petroleum, and other multinational corporations.”
“Wait…the oil companies are signing on for alternative fuel research?” you ask.
“Of course! The world is changing, my friend. Anyone who doesn’t want to end up fossilized must change with it. Volkswagen is a great example. They’re the very reason we can use ethanol so successfully in this country, and they’re excited to be a part of our next step.”
“Which leads us to Viktor Lucio de Ocampo,” Bertram says. “What can you tell us about him?”
“The doctor is a brilliant inventor,” Fellini says. “I sincerely believed he was going to be the one to change the world with his biofuel patents.”
“Was,” you reply. “Until he was crossed off the program lineup.”
“Can you tell us why the doctor was blacklisted?”
Italo Fellini pauses for a moment, looking at his folded hands in thought. He rises, taking a moment to gaze out into the distance before saying, “I’m afraid I cannot.”
Bertram leans forward in earnest. “Please, this is for a murder investigation. Whatever you can tell us could help take a killer off the streets.”
“I’m truly sorry,” he replies. “I’d love to help, but our sponsors have their reasons.”
“We could return with a court order,” you say.
“And you’d find the non-disclosure agreement I signed would stop your progress.” He isn’t being smug, he’s just telling you where you stand. This is clearly a dead end.
“Which sponsor was it? Just tell us that,” Bertram asks.
“Now, please,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, trust me. Go back to Rio and simply investigate from there. You’re wasting your time here; as you say, there’s a killer on the streets.”
The gravity of his tone stuns you into silence.
“I must go now. I’ve told you all I can, and I’m a busy man.”
“We’ll see you at the Energy Summit,” Bertram says.
Italo Fellini frowns, shakes his head in disappointment, and walks away.
You turn to Bertram. “The sponsors. We should check the press release to see who else is on that list, but he specifically mentioned the oil companies.”
“Right, BP and Petrobras,” he says, checking his notebook. “He also mentioned Volkswagen.
“All right, we’re short on time and long on suspects. Only two days until the Energy Summit; I think we might need to split up. These corporations will all have someone who speaks English, so you’ll be fine there. How about this: we each take an oil company, then meet up and talk with VW?”
• “I’ll take BP. He said Petrobras is the state-run company, so I think you might be able to swing your diplomatic weight better there.”
• “I’ll take Petrobras—maybe I can play the role of tourist and catch them off-guard while you look into BP’s dirty secrets.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Ganging Up
She asks, then interprets his reply. “Yeah, he says the Shadow Chiefs are involved in everything, but to me it just sounds like machismo. Then he says that he’ll take you to the rest of the gang so you can ask them yourself. After that he talks about what he’d do to you if we didn’t have guns trained on him, but I don’t want to repeat that. It’s…very explicit.”
Bastard. He’s stalling, you can tell that much without any need for translation. You probably won’t get another opportunity like this and he’s wasting it—your jaw tightens.
Through gritted teeth, you say, “Motivate him to be more specific.”
Irma pistol-whips the young drug trafficker again and waits for a response. He spits once more, this time sending a tooth across the concrete floor. His only reply now is a string of swear words.
• “Keep going. Make him talk.”
• “We don’t need to waste our time on this punk. Let’s go see what Agent Danly has found.”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Geeking Out
“You asked for it!” he laughs. “Okay, so ethanol has long been touted as the ‘fuel of the future.’ In your country, massive subsidies for corn ethanol have tried, with little success, I’m afraid, to push ethanol to the forefront. But you see, even though corn ethanol is 22 percent cleaner than gasoline, a gallon of ethanol is only 67percent as effective as a gallon of gas and the energy gained is debatable. Best estimates give ethanol an energy input-to-output ratio of 1:1.3. That is to say, the energy it takes to produce one unit of ethanol will give you an energy output of one-point-three. Meaning you have only one-third of a unit of energy left over to use in your car or what-have-you, which is not very much, comparatively.
“Take ethanol compared to biodiesel, for example. Biodiesel is 86 percent as effective as conventional, fossil-fuel diesel, but the energy input/output ratio is 1:2.5, or more than twice as effective as corn ethanol. Additionally, biodiesel is 68 percent cleaner than diesel—compared to corn ethanol being only 22 percent cleaner than gas, if you recall. We use a lot of biodiesel in Germany, and have had some success with it, but nothing compared to what Brazil has done thus far.
“Here they use sugarcane ethanol, which is a big difference. Sugarcane has an input/output ratio of 1:8, that’s eight times more efficient, and it’s 56 percent cleaner than gasoline! They have government subsidies here too, which is why the ethanol is significantly cheaper than gas at the pumps; but the main difference is that sugarcane ethanol production is almost immediately profitable. Do you follow me so far?”
You look to Bertram, who has his notepad out. “Continue,” he says with a nod.
“This is where Dr. Viktor Lucio de Ocampo comes in. He’s a pioneer in cellulosic ethanol, which is the next step—the next leap, really. By some estimates, cellulosic ethanol has a production ratio of 1:36 and is 91 percent cleaner than gasoline. Which is incredible, but I’ve heard rumors that Viktor has even beaten these estimates in his breakthrough.”
“What’s cell-you…?” Bertram asks.
“Ah, do forgive me! Cellulosic ethanol is a fuel produced from any plant matter, even plant waste. You could use the cornstalks instead of the corn, you could use green waste from your citizens, recycled paper, wild prairie grasses, weeds, lawn clippings, anything!”
“That’s incredible,” you say.
“Truly. And when we were supporting Viktor’s research, he was working on harvesting algae from smokestacks. Which would go further than just clean fuel for our vehicles—with this technology, we could greatly reduce the environmenta
l impact of power plants: cleaning them with the algae and then harvesting the plant-scum for fuel afterwards. It’s the closest thing to ‘free energy’ yet.”
“So he’s set to be a billionaire,” you say.
Mr. Renfield smiles. “If successful, this technology would be needed worldwide and would pervade nearly every industry. We are talking about what might be the world’s first trillion-dollar idea.”
The room is silent for a moment, Bertram stops writing, and the three of you let that notion sink in.
“So why would he be banned from the Energy Summit?” you ask.
“There are always those resistant to change. While the potential of gain is obvious, you must ask yourself, who has the most to lose?”
“Like oil companies?”
He shakes his head. “If anything, they want control of such a commodity. Think of it this way—what does an oil company primarily set out to do?”
You say nothing, hoping the question is rhetorical, so it’s Bertram who answers. “Sell oil?”
“Precisely. They’re sellers of a commodity. If a newer, better commodity comes along, they’ll just start selling the next big thing. What you need to look for is the producers—they’re the ones who fear change.”
“Those invested in crude oil production?” you try.
He bobbles his head uncertainly. “Perhaps. I’d say you were on to something if he was banned from an Energy Summit hosted by the Arab Emirates, but you’re in Brazil. And in Brazil they’re producing…?”
Then it clicks. Sugarcane. How much sugarcane must be produced and harvested annually if 85 percent of the vehicles run on sugarcane ethanol? And if suddenly sugarcane wasn’t needed? If any plant would do? Who would lose indeed…?
“Dear God, sugarcane,” Bertram says, reaching the same conclusion.
Renfield smiles like a professor whose pupils have finally solved the equation. “The fastest way to become a billionaire in Brazil is with sugarcane production. I don’t want to bite the hand that feeds me, but—maybe you should pay a visit to a mill? The Governor of this territory, Mateo Ferro, owns every sugarcane plantation within five hundred miles.”
“The so-called Sugar King?” Bertram asks.
“As you say, sir.”
Agent Bertram closes his notebook, extends his hand, and says, “Thank you for your time.”
Upon leaving, he adds to you, “If we were looking for someone who hates Viktor, we might have a motive, but why the girl? Something doesn’t add up. Let’s check in at the local consulate and see if Danly has reported in from last night. I’m afraid we might’ve hit a dead end with this whole Viktor thing. Hopefully Danly’s got something.”
• Head to the consulate.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
A Gentleman’s Agreement
The man takes pity on you and agrees to let you leave. The airlines charge you $300 to change your flight (greedy bastards), and you’re off the next day. And not a moment too soon; the whole time it feels like you’re being watched—and most likely, you are.
You return home and never hear the results of these odd events. Did they ever catch the killer? Did this man find his fiancée? You’ll never know, but you’ll always wonder—to your dying day—what would’ve happened if you’d stayed and helped.
THE END
Get to the Chopper
The fetching young pilot arrives, powers down the helicopter, bounces out in her uniform and aviator sunglasses, and stretches out a map before you to plan your trip into the jungle. The name “Maria” etched on her nametag glitters in the late afternoon sun.
“I will not lie to you, this trip cannot be cheap. Private charter never is, but the distance is great for such a journey,” she says.
With a protractor, she draws a circle around your present location and adds, “This is how far I can take you because of fuel, yes?”
“We understand. Can you show us where the sugar plantation Monopólio is on the map?” Bertram asks.
Her eyebrows rise. “You have a meeting with the fazendeiro?”
Bertram nods, then turns to you and translates, “Plantation owner.”
“Ah, yes,” you say. “I’m an inspector and this is my bodyguard.”
She looks at you, the expression in her eyes hidden behind her mirrored sunglasses and smiles coyly. “As you say. This is no problem; the plantation is within our fuel range.”
* * *
Soon you’re up in the air and on your way. Civilization turns to jungle almost immediately and the scenery goes by in a blur of emerald waves. The smallish helicopter is noisy, but the headsets you all wear make communication possible.
“We’ve got a problem,” the pilot says. “See that up ahead? It’s a fire. We’re going to have to divert.”
On the horizon, thick black smoke rises high into the sky. Maria consults a map strapped to her leg for an alternate route.
Bertram asks, “How far out are we? Is there a problem at the plantation?”
“I don’t think so. It is likely because they are clearing forest for farm land. They destroy the land as if on accident, but then they clear it and pretend they owned it all along.”
“So… they’re stealing it. And they just get away with that?” you say.
“It’s very common practice. Grilagem—ah, land thieves. There are only a handful of inspectors, and there is so much land, so they can get away with it. Governor Ferro, the man who happens to own Monopólio plantation, makes it very easy for such thieves because they make land cheap and available.”
“Wait, the Governor? He’s in on it?” you ask.
“Yes, of course. You do not know this? They call Mateo Ferro O Rei do Açúcar, ‘the King of Sugar.’ He owns over 350,000 acres of sugarcane land. You see that dirt road below us? It’s called the ‘Sugar Highway’– it may not be paved, but it’s very wide and very long. It is an illegally made road for loggers, ranchers, soy and sugarcane plantation owners. Soon the Governor will have it paved. He grows rich in this way.”
“To be honest,” Agent Bertram says, “We don’t know much about these land sharks. In truth, we’re actually law enforcement investigating an American death. The inspector/bodyguard is only our cover story.”
“I figured it must be something like this. You should be careful. They have a lot of money, yes? People disappear in the jungle all the time. If the grileiros think you are government officials, and that you are all alone, they will kill you.”
“Grileiros?” you ask.
“Grileiros are the hired guns who work for these ‘sharks’ of land, as you say. They sell off the timber, then clear all remaining plants with fire to make room for cattle and farm owners, who they will sell the land to.”
“How do you know so much about this?” Bertram asks. “I grew up here, but in the city I didn’t see any of this.”
“I did not ‘grew up’ in the city,” she says. “Did you hear of the nun who was killed by grileiros when she was trying to stop them from taking land?”
Bertram snaps his fingers. “I do remember hearing about that. She was shot dead for defying them, then they killed the rancher who wouldn’t give up his land, right in front of his wife and kids. It was a big deal. When was that? Almost ten years ago?”
She nods. “It was a big deal. I lived out on a ranch then with my family, when I was a little girl. My father did not want to sell, but it was too dangerous. Once they killed the Sister, my father feared we were in too much danger. To kill a nun, this is a great sin. They have no souls, these grileiros. My father sold our land and moved our family to the city. Both my mother and father worked two jobs so I could go to school.”
“And after all that, you were going to fly us to a business meeting with the man responsible?” you ask.
“To survive in Brasil, you have to shut your mouth and play dumb,” she says. “But now that I know you will help us, I want to do something. I will not take my fee—you pay for fuel only. I wish I could do more, but…”
“We can’t promise anything,” Bertram says. “But if the Sugar King is responsible for this girl’s death, he will be prosecuted.”
She smiles. “It’s a good thing you aren’t working with the local police, otherwise the grileiros would already know you were coming.”
Just then you hear a series of metallic raps, the helicopter shakes, and a yellow light flashes on the dashboard. Notes and charts are sucked from their spots inside the aircraft toward three tiny holes in the floor—gunshot-sized holes.
“We’ve lost oil pressure!” she cries.
“We’ve been shot!” you call out.
“They must have hit the oil lines.”
Then a red indicator goes off, accompanied by a high-pitched beeping. The language of aviation is English, so the two words you see illuminated in red on the dashboard display make your heart stop: “ENGINE FIRE.”
“Hold on!” she cries.
Maria pulls on the controls, idling the throttle and effectively turning the helicopter into a brick, taking the nimble craft into a dive. With no throttle, only the air passing through the blades makes them windmill as you plummet toward the earth below.
“It’s okay,” Bertram calmly says to you.
Despite the confidence in his gravelly voice and saltwater eyes, your stomach turns and your heart rises into your throat. You’re falling so quickly that you feel your weight in your shoulders, pressing against your seatbelt rather than against the seat. The blood rushes out of your legs and your body tingles. The ground is getting closer and closer, growing in relative size and proximity at what feels like an exponential rate.
Seconds before hitting the ground, the pilot pulls up on the stick using the rotational speed created by the wind blowing through the blades to create a last-second push of lift. In effect, the helicopter falls from five feet instead of five hundred feet as the rotational energy of the blades is depleted.
MURDERED: Can YOU Solve the Mystery? (Click Your Poison Book 2) Page 13
