Milkshake

by Matt Hammond

  Patrick smiled as he remembered the warm glow of excitement he’d felt on first realising the possibilities that his father’s bequest had brought him.

  His mobile phone rang and he was startled back to reality, and the present. “It’s me. The car is about two minutes away. Bring our guest down to meet it in the loading bay.”

  Chapter 22

  David sat staring at a blank television screen. No doubt Ed was looking for him but he felt safer with O’Sullivan, a respected businessman and politician. He must have security around him, although David had yet to see any evidence of it.

  He slipped the bike keys into the helmet, placed it on a chair and tucked the chair under the table in front of the window. There was no point carrying a motorbike helmet around with him. If anything happened, it wouldn’t take a genius to work out they belonged to the unclaimed bike still parked out the front of the hotel. Stickers on the fairings clearly showed it was on hire from Lightning Bikes.

  He’d left a sufficient trail to follow, if required. There was a tap on the door. “Time to go, Dave. Got everything?”

  “Yep,” he lied, hoping O’Sullivan was convinced enough not to check the room.

  “Good. Follow me.” O’Sullivan was a slim, fit man, and led David swiftly down four flights of stairs and through a series of corridors until they were at the rear loading bay of the hotel. His imminent death from an apparent heart attack would surely raise some questions.

  The security shutter slowly clanked open. A large 4x4 had already reversed into the brightly lit loading bay, shining black paintwork reflecting the surrounding lights. “Get in the back. He’ll take you somewhere safe for the night. I’ve contacted the police. They’ll be in touch first thing in the morning.”

  The black car rolled out into the night. Patrick punched a number into his phone. “It’s me again. He’s on his way. Make sure you put him somewhere secure until we decide what to do with him. I need to make some enquiries first. Check his background, find out who he’s been speaking to. He seems to know a lot more than any of the others. We need to make sure he hasn’t been planted. He thinks I’m protecting him, so let’s just keep it that way for now. His name is Dave Turner, by the way.”

  Brent watched from the bus. A motion sensitive camera he’d placed inside the loading bay picked up O’Sullivan’s image and relayed it to the computer on the bus. The live video feed clearly showed the profile of Turner standing next to him. This was bad. It meant that either Turner had deliberately made contact with O’Sullivan, or O’Sullivan had sought him out.

  Brent hurdled small shrubs, desperate to get in position before the shutter fully opened. He pulled up sharply when he saw the black car already waiting. Someone got into the back and the car moved off. He keyed the registration plate into his phone and pressed send .The incoming text lit up Brent’s face as he read it.

  TOYOTA HI LUX BLACK 2001

  REGISTERED TO COWOOD INDUSTRIES LTD.

  He ran back to the bus, started the engine and drove to the end of the street. It was late and the city centre was deserted. Two hundred metres up the road, a vehicle stopped on a red traffic light. The black Toyota was heading out of town. The light turned green and the Toyota pulled away. The driver would stick to the speed limit for fear of attracting attention from any traffic cops.

  The same lights stopped the bus. Brent accelerated the lumbering vehicle slowly away, keeping in sight the quarter lights of the Toyota. The trick was to follow at a discrete distance, not doing anything that might attract attention in a five tonne diesel bus at ten-thirty at night.

  Blacked out windows made it impossible for David to see. The driver took the phone from his ear, and looked through the rear view mirror.

  “Mr Turner, isn’t it? I’m taking you out of town for the night, Mr Turner. There’s a lodge about twenty minutes away. You’ll be safe and very comfortable there. Mr O’Sullivan will be in touch first thing in the morning. Now, hold tight, we’ve got a tail.” David felt the 4x4 accelerate hard as the street outside suddenly appeared even darker. They were on a fast, unlit road.

  Brent reached the roundabout thirty seconds later. The car had sped away into the night. There was no chance the bus would be able to catch it. Five minutes down the main highway was the next small town and a few tiny villages before the road wound through sparsely populated rugged open country, interspersed with mountainous terrain and deep river valleys, until it reached Christchurch four hundred kilometres to the south.

  He knew exactly where they were heading. Pulling hard on the steering wheel, the bus leaned over and headed back.

  * * *

  In his hotel room, Patrick O’Sullivan knew he’d be in for a long night. This sudden appearance of a courier was unexpected, unnerving and even though he felt he’d dealt successfully with the situation, he couldn’t be sure until he’d spoken to the others.

  He despised the constant subterfuge and intrigue. He’d inherited his share of Dairytree as a young, passionate environmentalist. Anika introduced him to the university branch of the fledgling EPANZ movement. Together they'd planned how they would make New Zealand a better, more environmentally conscious nation, and create a greener tomorrow for the children they one day planned to have.

  The inheritance came at a convenient time for Patrick who had no real idea what the future held for him. Suddenly he was confronted with making decisions about his life he’d hoped to put off for a few more years yet.

  Dairytree executives had little choice but to invite him to join the Board and, soon, at the age of twenty-five, he was taking an active daily role in the Research and Development of one of the country’s largest exporters.

  Patrick was completely immersed in his Dairytree activities and his ecological crusade. As far as he was concerned, there was no conflict of interest. One passion complemented the other.

  He married Anika. With his wife’s vision and his own youthful entrepreneurial spirit, the pair became local media darlings and politically-active celebrities. Many believed Patrick was destined for high office.

  As Chairman of Dairytree, he steered the company through a delicate period of re-structuring in the early nineties that saw it emerge stronger and in a position to embark on its greatest challenge - an all-out export drive to the United States.

  This fateful decision brought Dairytree onto the radar of the American Food and Drug Administration’s science board, and its chairman Charles Malling.

  The board consisted of senior scientists with exceptionally accomplished backgrounds in evolving areas of new scientific research. This distinguished group met on 30 September 1997 at the Washington Plaza Hotel. Senator Elmerstein had already held his two hour meeting with Malling. The Chair of the Science Board was clear what was required of him

  On the agenda was an update from the Biofuels Forum, to be presented by Dr Taylor Morgan from the California Center for International Dairy Research.

  Dr Morgan spoke about the progress being made in the field of gamma casein fusion. A race existed between his own team and one backed by a New Zealand dairy company The goal was to make the breakthrough required to ensure a 51% whey to ethanol conversion ratio.

  He was completely unaware his team were using the exact same data Paddy O’Sullivan had succeeded in generating twenty-three years earlier. Dairytree were working from Paddy’s photocopies and the Americans had the original, stolen documentation.

  After Taylor Morgan had finished his presentation and left the meeting, Charles Malling dismissed the stenographer before he spoke.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, what you’ve just heard from Dr Morgan represents the future of energy for this country. Because the raw material is essentially a food source, the jurisdiction and control of this energy must fall, at least for the time being, under the auspices of this committee. I believe that it is our duty to both preserve and advance this work for the benefit of the people of the United States. I therefore propose that we instigate the formation of an umbrella o
rganisation whose sole purpose will be to forward those aims. I am confident that the decisions we make around this table today will have the unquestioning support of our highest authority.”

  By the time the stenographer was recalled forty-five minutes later, all twenty-one members of the board were unanimous. Cowood Industries had been created.

  Cowood would be granted sole worldwide rights to the production of a completely new form of fuel. The true genesis of the company was unrecorded, un-minuted, un-traceable.

  * * *

  Brent brought the bus to a halt outside the hotel. The laptop on the seat behind emitted an unfamiliar sound. He stopped manoeuvring the large vehicle and listened. He remembered. It was the warning the tech guys had programmed in to alert him Patrick O’Sullivan had picked up the phone in his hotel room and was about to make a call.

  He listened intently, the front of the bus still protruding out on to the street, hoping a clear line of sight would enable him to hear both sides of the conversation. “Good evening, Mr O’Sullivan. This is the concierge. How may I help you?”

  “Hi, is it too late to get a cappuccino?”

  “Of course not, sir, I’ll send someone up right away.” The clarity of the voices coming from the computer behind him was unnerving but the words spurred Brent into action.

  With a flick of the wrists, and a glance in his side mirror, the bus was parked. Jumping down from the driver’s seat, he ran across the road and, pulling his wallet from his jacket, strode purposefully through the door and up to the reception desk. The night porter looked up from his newspaper at a Security Intelligence Service identity pass.

  “How’s it going, mate? I’m with Mr O’Sullivan’s personal security detail and I need your pass key.” Without any sign of a question in his face or in his voice, the porter unclipped the pass from his belt and handed it to Brent.

  “Fifth floor, room 521,” the porter offered helpfully.

  “Thanks, mate, I know.” Brent lied.

  Looking impressively like a security professional, he slowly scanned the lobby, looking for the lift. He turned back to the porter once again. “And Mr Turner. Is he still in room ... ?”

  “519, just down the corridor from your boss.”

  “Cheers, Bro'. “

  Brent knew that, despite his status, both political and industrial, Patrick O’Sullivan rarely travelled with any kind of entourage, let alone security staff. He was a well known and popular figure, an image he’d carefully cultivated over the years and one that, in the recent past, he’d been given additional coaching for.

  Strangers smiled or greeted him warmly. In the past year even farmers had taken to giving him the odd friendly slap on the back and a firm handshake. There was no need to surround himself with burly men in dark suits and even darker glasses.; it was against the ethos of openness and accessibility he wanted to encourage as leader of the Ecological party of New Zealand.

  The lift doors opened. Brent stepped into the deserted corridor and waited. A few moments later there was the faint sound of another lift door opening. A member of the kitchen staff emerged from the service elevator carrying a small tray of coffee and liquor chocolates. Brent waited for the young girl, wary of startling her and causing an accident. As she got closer, he moved towards her, smiling.

  “Hi, how ya doing? Look, I’m meant to be guarding the guy in 521. He asked me to take his coffee in for him.” Brent flashed his pass once more as he gently teased the tray from her palm. “So, if I could just take this - thanks, you have a good evening.” He smiled again, as she blushed, turned and disappeared back around the corner.

  Brent balanced the tray in his left hand, his right moving inside his jacket pocket. He flipped the lid of the plastic phial with his thumb, poured half the remaining contents over the coffee, closed the lid and replaced the phial.

  Outside room 521, he checked the distance to 519, the position of the swipe mechanism on the door, and rotated the card in his sweating right hand so the black strip was ready to swipe.

  Placing the tray on the floor, he took a deep breath and knocked hard on the door. “Room service!” As the last syllable passed his lips, he leapt to his left, swiped the card, opened the door and stepped through into the deserted room. Half closing the door, he stood and listened as O’Sullivan’s door opened. The tray was silently lifted and the door clicked shut again.

  Brent reached for the light switch he’d seen just before the door had shut out the residual light from the hallway. A fluorescent tube flickered into life in the bathroom, illuminating the rest of the room. The porter said this was David Turner’s room.

  He moved towards the table looking for any sign Turner may have perhaps scribbled a message on the notepaper that lay on the table beneath the window. There was something on the chair, large and dark. He picked up the motorbike helmet, revealing the keys on the seat beneath. He remembered the motorcycle that had been parked outside the hotel since late afternoon. Brent picked up the keys, went back to the door, and slowly opened it. The corridor was deserted. He ran back to the lobby and handed the pass key back to the night porter. Brent saw him looking at the bike helmet.

  On the shift handover, the porter had been told the motorbike parked out front belonged to the guest in 519 who’d been told it was ok to leave it there overnight. Now this security guy, who had asked about the same guest, had re-appeared apparently carrying this guest’s crash helmet.

  Brent sensed his suspicion. “I needed to get the guy in 519 to move his bike. It’s a security hazard parked out there like that. He‘s already in bed, so he asked me to move it for him.” Brent dangled the key between his fingers, re-enforcing the explanation. The porter hadn’t asked for any. The moment felt a little awkward. Further details were needed, Brent decided, to allay any remaining suspicion.

  “So, anyway, I said I’d move it to the underground car park and, to save disturbing him again, I’ll drop the key back to him in the morning.” Brent was having difficulty reading the guy’s expression. He couldn’t decide between ongoing suspicion and genuine indifference. He left it there, said goodnight, went back outside, fastened up his jacket, pulled on the helmet and rode off, retracing the route he’d taken in the bus a short while before.

  This time, at the roundabout, he turned onto the state highway. There was no chance of catching the black car but the motorbike would at least allow him to arrive at his destination undetected.

  * * *

  Patrick sipped his cappuccino and sucked on the soft dark chocolate, savouring the warm silky texture in his mouth, mulling over what had occurred tonight. He’d dealt with Turner in a calm manner. Once the card had been recovered, the courier would die somewhere out in the bush, like so many others had already. But he was still concerned that Turner had somehow been able to link the card to him. Why, having done that, did he feel the need the warn him?

  The glow of guilt flushed over his face, a rare feeling nowadays. He allowed his mind to open up to the possibility those who opposed his political ambitions and economic aspirations were even now actively working against him. There was surely only one group who sought to oppose what he was trying to achieve for New Zealand. The comfortable Old Boys' Club of conservative-thinking politicians had become unnerved, almost to the point of paranoia, by the way in which EPANZ had apparently managed to reach out to a significant proportion of the voting public in recent months. Polls were showing their popularity rating soaring across the board. Affluent business executives in Auckland were being promised fuel bills for their gas-guzzling urban tractors would drop by eighty per cent within two years of EPANZ getting into power, dairy farmers on the Canterbury Plains assured their land would be purchased from them at hugely inflated prices, then leased back at a peppercorn rent in order for them to continue to produce the milk that would literally fuel the nation’s economy.

  But, as he sat alone in his hotel room, Patrick struggled to deny the immorality of what he intended to accomplish. He remembered the first
time he’d met Dr Taylor Morgan, who’d introduced himself as an admirer of Dairytree’s innovative product research, at a Los Angeles trade fair back in the spring of 1998.

  Morgan spoke at length about his own investigation into the whey based ethanol theory, and Patrick soon realised how similar their professional paths had been up to that point. The American was leaving his faculty and had financial backing to set up a commercial research facility called the Cowood Institute that had been granted a licence by the American FDA to research producing whey-based bio-fuel in commercial quantities.

  Over the next year, the pair kept in touch on a professional level by email. A formal memorandum of understanding was signed between the two organisations, allowing them to share information and data. Dairytree had no way of knowing that the research Cowood was sharing was actually old data gleaned over many years. Morgan already knew that to produce large quantities of the milk, and therefore the whey, it was necessary for thousands of calves to be carrying the mutated gamma casein gene.

  When the Americans realised the risk in introducing this gene into the national dairy herd, they halted development. With the formal link with Dairytree established, however, they drip fed their knowledge to the point where the Kiwis caught up, believing they had made the breakthrough themselves.

  Directors from other Agencies were uneasy about the way in which this uncontrolled, unregulated, and largely unmonitored project was evolving. The FDA had somehow become the leading protagonist and they, in turn, were placing their faith, and hundreds of thousands of tax dollars, squarely at the feet of Taylor Morgan.