The Samoa Seduction

by Alan L. Moss

  Gale contemplated the proposal, sitting back in a lounge chair puffing on his cigar.

  Finally, he spoke.

  “You don’t play around with the small stuff, do you, George? Well, there’s no way we can raid the Treasury for that sum. On the other hand, we may be able to raise such dollars for the Government and then borrow them for a little while before they’re deposited in the Treasury. So, if we had the funds, how would this project proceed?”

  George sat on a straight-back chair facing Gale’s lounger.

  “I see this deal happening in four steps. One, we provide Health-Cell with the fifty-one million. Two, they provide the cure kits and necessary training to a doctor we employ. Three, the doctor administers the cures and provides independent verification that the patients are in the clear. Four, the patients’ payments, placed in escrow, are released to us. If you can raise and then borrow the money for a few weeks, we could repay the funds and pocket amazing profits.”

  Gale mulled over what George told him. He puffed on his cigar for close to thirty minutes, turning it and asking George numerous questions. Then, he put the cigar down and got up from his lounger.

  “First of all, we’ll need an attorney to draw up a contract with Health-Cell to make sure they deliver and do it on time. Second, the attorney will have to develop contracts for the families of the patients we treat. Third, the attorney and doctor we employ will have to work together to identify candidates and to approach them in a proper manner. To get the right kind of people, the doctor and lawyer would have to be paid handsomely, maybe three million each.”

  Now, Gale began pacing in front of the pool’s shallow end. He continued to describe how he thought the plan could work.

  “As to the fifty-one million, the Governor and I have considered seeking an early payment of tax revenues from our tuna company. The executives who run it fight like hell to keep the cost of labor down. It’s not that they can’t afford wage increases. Their fear is if wages go up, they’ll get pressure from headquarters to move to lower-cost areas. Since they’ve already built an efficient operation here and are comfortable living on our little Island, the last thing they want to do is move to some godforsaken place and start over.

  “The Labor Department will hold hearings in June to update the minimum wage here. The new rate will be in effect over the next two years. This is especially important for the tuna industry because most tuna workers are paid at or near the minimum wage.

  “After public hearings, a Special Industry Committee votes to set our minimum wage. By appointing Committee members indebted to the Governor, we’ve held increases to almost nothing, making our tuna executives very happy.

  “Our idea is to issue a tax certificate to Filet of the Ocean requiring an early payment of sixty million dollars. Normally, at least half that sum would be due next April and the remainder, the April after that. Under the certificate, the total would be paid this June.”

  Gale paused and sat back down.

  “Now, George, you must know one critical matter. This early payment would be required only if the minimum wage increase is at or below two percent, a condition negotiated with the cannery. Understand that the Government may need these early tax revenues just to meet its payroll. This guarantees that the territorial departments will use their influence to keep the increase low.”

  Gale took a long drag from his cigar and blew a steady stream of smoke into the air.

  “So, the Samoan government gets sixty million to help pay its bills and the tuna cannery benefits from continued low wages. Assuming I can get the Governor to follow through, after borrowing the tuna money, we’d provide Health-Cell with its fifty-one million, and have nine million to compensate our doctor, the attorney, and to fund incidental expenses.

  “To maintain secrecy, we should keep the number of patients to a bare minimum. I would suggest we deal with no more than fifteen families.

  “Now, let’s say we charge six million for each patient. That gives us ninety million, sixty million to pay back the Samoan treasury and thirty million in profits, fifteen million for each of us.”

  George sat in his chair, understanding for the first time how Gale has been able to amass power and wealth in Samoa. Gale continued.

  “George, I have one serious concern. What if this whole scheme is a farce? What if this CEO is looking for a quick fortune? What if the cures are provided but don’t work? The funds wouldn’t be released from escrow and we’d have no way to reimburse the Samoan Treasury. It wouldn’t be long before we’d become cellmates in federal prison.”

  “I’ve thought of that, too,” George said, puffing on what was left of his cigar. “That’s why I agree we need a paper trail of contractual agreements, not only with Health-Cell’s CEO but with each executive officer. Once we have that, if the ship goes down, they go down with us. In fact, my staff is investigating the company’s officers as we speak.”

  Gale looked at George with genuine admiration.

  “Good for you, George! You go back to Hawaii and do a comprehensive investigation of Health-Cell and its personnel and I'll work on the Governor to go ahead with the early tax payment. As soon as that’s approved, I’ll contact a lawyer friend of mine in Portland, Oregon, who would be perfect for this job. He or you should be able to recruit a prominent and willing physician.”

  Gale began to get up from his chair but George motioned for him to stay.

  “Gale, I have one concern of my own.

  “I look around at most American Samoans, and pardon my candor, they look pretty shabby. What if, in spite of their loyalty to the Governor, this Committee decides to raise rates by ten or twenty percent? Does that mean we’re out of business?”

  Gale rose from his lounge chair and walked over to George, putting his arm around his new partner.

  “My friend, that is not going to happen. Even the U.S. Department of Labor has accepted the low increases of recent years. Just stick with our plan and leave the wage increases to me. Why don’t you give me a call here at the house once a week so we can track progress and discuss any outstanding issues?”

  George crushed the stub of his cigar in a poolside ashtray.

  “All right, I’ll call every Sunday evening at seven your time.”

  The two men shook hands and George drove off toward Pago Pago. Although there was much work to be done, he was beginning to think this project would be his salvation.

  NEW ZEALAND

  July 9, 2004 – July 13, 2004

  CHAPTER 24

  TOUGH ROOT

  July 9, 2004

  Auckland, New Zealand

  Qantas Airways Flight 4/49 would land at Auckland International Airport in forty-five minutes. After fourteen hours in the air, plus the stop in Sydney, Michael Bloom was feeling his age. Tired but spurred on by what he had learned, he was adapting to life as a conspiracy buster.

  He spent two days in Honolulu searching for information about Health-Cell Corporation and Gregory Ponsonby, George Partain’s contact. Health-Cell was publicly traded, so Michael gained much of what he needed to know from visiting an investment firm. He signed up with a broker telling him he wanted to invest in a corporation which focused on stem cell research. He was especially interested in a New Zealand corporation called Health-Cell.

  The plane rocked a few times and the fasten seatbelt sign flashed. Then, the captain’s voice filled the cabin.

  “Sorry, mates, can’t seem to get over this patch of rough sky. Sit tight and we should be sailing smoothly in a few minutes.”

  Michael, now alert, reviewed the information he unearthed.

  Health-Cell was a small but pioneering firm specializing in stem cell research and applications. Rumor was in a few months the company would request final approval to market a stem cell cure for juvenile diabetes. If true, that would earn untold wealth for the firm and revolutionize the stem cell industry.

  Conservative investment experts had their reserva-tions. Findings from required testing wer
e yet to be published, and two of the firm’s executives, Gregory Ponsonby and Dr. John Seaton, unloaded their shares, retired, and moved to South Africa. If it was the real thing, why wouldn’t they wait for approval of the diabetes cure and the recognition and huge payday that would follow?

  A New Zealand investment newsletter from the year 2001 claimed many feared Health-Cell would go under. According to the story, the firm recruited top researchers from around the world but mortgaged itself to the hilt. Unless Health-Cell arranged a significant infusion of cash, it faced bankruptcy or an unfriendly takeover by a competitor.

  Then, in the summer of 2001, the summer of the minimum wage hearings in American Samoa, the company’s fiscal problems disappeared. Loan payments were made, mortgages brought current, and additional staff recruited.

  Michael figured Health-Cell’s financial comeback must have been related to the minimum wage hearings. The only conceivable link had to be the tuna tax certifi-cate and its sixty million dollars.

  At the time, Michael believed the certificate was contrived to ensure paltry increases in Samoa’s minimum wage. However, the government backed up the need for the certificate’s dollars with claims of a fiscal crisis, indicated by government payroll checks with insufficient funds for payment. The implication was clear — unless the government received its millions in early tax payments, it faced financial disaster.

  Michael was certain the certificate and the payroll shortfall were manufactured for the mutual benefit of the canneries and the government. Once the minimum wage increase was set at no more than two percent, the cannery could continue paying poverty wages and the government would receive cash to avoid the financial consequences of its fiscal misadventures and mismanagement.

  He tried to convince the Special Industry Committee members that the certificate shouldn’t be considered in establishing the new rates, but the Committee, led by Chairman Pecura, didn’t want to risk bankrupting the government or driving away the Territory’s largest private employer. Now, it seemed money to save Health-Cell also was at stake.

  Michael didn’t know how the sixty million had been diverted to Health-Cell. Surely, someone in the American Samoan Government worked with George Partain, Gregory Ponsonby, and Paul Pecura to pull it off. Also, he didn’t know how the money had been repaid or how the conspirators had profited, but he was convinced he had unlocked most of the mystery.

  ***

  Claiming to be a reporter for a new monthly magazine interested in stem cell research, the next day Michael had an appointment with Health-Cell’s public relations officer, Ian Lucas. Michael intended to shake things up with hard-hitting questions that might lead him to the identity of Health-Cell’s Samoan connection.

  ***

  A cold wind hit Michael hard and the forty-six degree air reminded him that July in Auckland is January on Long Beach Island. A heavy winter rain pelted the quilted jacket he purchased at the Sydney airport. He pulled his suitcase along and waved down a cab in the nearly deserted ground transportation area.

  The driver of the first cab in line, a tall slender man in his twenties, popped his trunk, took Michael’s bag, and opened the door to the rear seat. Michael sat down in the cab and the driver slid behind the wheel.

  “Okay, mate, where we headed?”

  “Just down the road to the Akarana Airport Hotel.”

  “Got a flight out early tomorrow?” the cab driver asked.

  “Right, five after seven to Christchurch.”

  “I’m not too busy these days. How about if I pick you up at six?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Ten minutes later the cab pulled under the motel’s portico and the driver retrieved Michael’s bag. The motel was a red brick building with a large figure of a Kiwi on the roof.

  “They don’t fly, you know,” the driver said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh,” the driver responded, “I guess you didn’t see the large Kiwi on the roof. They can’t get themselves off the ground.”

  “Must be afraid of heights,” Michael joked.

  “Haven’t heard that one before,” the cabbie responded, shaking his head.

  As Michael paid the fare, he thought he saw another car approach. He stopped and turned around but spotted nothing except the driving rain.

  ***

  The room was pitch black. Rain driven by strong winds beat against the glass patio doors covered by thick drapes. Michael was exhausted by his travels and his vulnerable existence. This rare night of sound sleep was providing solace from the troubled memories and raw fear haunting his days.

  ***

  A thin tool slid under the latch that locked the glass doors. The instrument popped open the latch. A slender figure, dressed in black sweats and a hooded sweatshirt, waited for a pause in the weather. After a few minutes, a lull in the storm provided an opportunity to slide the door open and squeeze into the room without much disturbance. The figure closed the door and once again the storm outside took over.

  For a split second the open door and sound of driving rain invaded Michael’s sleep. He was back in Samoa at the Agelu Lodge. Then, the sliding doors were open just enough to hear the gurgling creek outside. He had passed out on the bed, intoxicated by Ava. Soon, Stephanie would be on him, eyes aflame with passion, full breasts inviting his touch.

  Demanding to know if this new vision was real or a dream, Michael opened his eyes. He found a man standing over him, the ends of a sharp cord wound around each of his gloved hands. Instinct drove Michael’s hands upward and the assassin’s attempt to slip the wire around Michael’s neck caught his forearms. The wire sliced through the sleeves of Michael’s pajamas and cut into his skin, pain speeding his consciousness.

  The man had botched his chance at a quick and silent murder.

  Michael could feel his heart racing. It seemed as if he was watching a scene in a movie, figuring the guy on the bed didn’t stand much of a chance. Then, a strange thing happened. It occurred to him that the assassin was probably relying on surprise. With his enemy’s advantage gone, maybe the guy on the bed did have a chance.

  He had nothing to lose by fighting back. Maybe he could make enough of a racket that other motel guests would come to his room to see what was going on and the assassin would flee.

  Hands locked together, Michael pummeled the man’s face, one, two, three times with all the force he could muster. Blood poured from the intruder’s nose and out the mouth of his hooded mask. Unable to counter the blows, the assassin stepped back, viewing his victim with amazement.

  Now the man in black reached under his belt and produced a large knife with a serrated edge. The metal blade caught the light from the night table alarm clock. Michael stared at the deadly weapon. He fought the urge to panic and forced his mind to focus on his defense.

  With Michael still flat on the bed, the man lunged forward, plunging the knife with a downward motion toward Michael’s heart. Michael rolled to his right, avoiding the blade, and then back again, shoving the assassin off the bed. The man grabbed for the drapes to stop his fall but they slid open and he hit the floor hard.

  Consumed by his frenzied fight for survival, Michael reached for the telephone on the nightstand and smashed it down on the invader’s head. The man covered up with his arms and assumed a fetal position. Michael struck him two more times and concluded his attacker must be unconscious.

  Michael staggered to his feet and moved toward the door, seeking refuge and assistance down the hall, but before he could turn the knob the assassin sprung to his feet holding a pistol equipped with a silencer.

  “You some tough little shit,” the man said, spitting blood and saliva on the carpet. “No wonder M wants you out the way.”

  Michael saw another figure moving behind the glass doors.

  “Now you can join your little lady,” spat the man, aiming the pistol.

  Before he could pull the trigger, a hollow womp startled them both and Michael’s would-be assassin lurched forw
ard and fell to the floor.

  Michael froze, staring at the body of the man who tried to take his life and must have been involved in Karen’s murder. He walked over and bent down beside him, removing the black hood. It was the friendly cab driver who offered to pick him up the next morning.

  The man must have been in his early twenties and had a thin scar on his left cheek. His bloody face and skull made him look more like a young victim than a murderer. Michael picked up the pistol, engaged the safety, and tossed it onto the bed.

  “Well, are you going to keep ignoring me or thank me for saving your life?”

  To his amazement, Michael looked at the glass doors and saw Joy Luahine slowly enter the room. She was dressed in a dark blue windbreaker and baseball cap and was holding what must have been a tranquilizer gun.

  “My God, Joy, I told you to stay away.”

  “Yeah, and where would you be if I had taken your advice?”

  “Is he dead?” Michael asked.

  “No, but he’ll be out for several hours. These darts pack a powerful punch.”

  A loud knock on the door interrupted their conversation.

  “Dr. Green, this is the night manager. It’s three in the morning and I’m getting calls all over the place from brassed-off guests. What’s going on in there?”

  Before Michael could answer, Joy stripped down to her waist and grabbed a towel from the bathroom. She opened the door a crack, just enough to show off most of her firm breasts. The manager’s eyes bulged.

  “Rack off, mate. I like tough root and my geezer delivers.”

  “Well, keep it down or I’ll toss you and your geezer out.”

  Joy closed the door. Drained of all emotion and energy, the two backed up to the bed and sat down.