Coca-Cola stocks dropped. They plummeted in fact, faster than they had during the New Coke blunder of the 1980s, and there was no sign of the near miraculous recovery that had occurred back then, when they had simply reverted to the original flavour.
Most of this, Fizzer and Tupai learned from the newspapers that were delivered daily to their expensive suite at the Four Seasons hotel. Some of it they picked up from the television news, and other information came to them first hand in the shape of Anastasia Borkin, who visited them daily, partly to check on them and partly to check on the armed guards, who were rostered in shifts in the corridor outside their room. No point in taking chances, she thought.
The next day brought even more bad news for The Coca-Cola Company, when a major fast food restaurant chain announced it was breaking a long tradition of serving only Coca-Cola products, and would, in future, be supplying a cheaper Australian soft drink. This announcement followed hard on the heels of similar announcements from some major international airlines.
The day also brought more news from the FBI, which was handling the kidnapping charges that had been levelled against Robert, Leonard, Kenneth, Hank and Curtis Cooper, five brothers who ran a mixed ranch and racing stables in Macon, Georgia.
The Cooper brothers, it turned out, were well-known to the local law enforcement agency, and State Troopers had been on their way to investigate the farm when two idiots, yelling and screaming from the top of a large green tractor, had waylaid them.
The FBI had asked the boys to stay around until they could properly arraign the Cooper brothers, and The Coca-Cola Company was happy to foot the hotel bills, considering what they had put the lads through.
The Cooper brothers were not entirely co-operative, but a mixture of promises and threats in separate interviews had the FBI convinced that they were no more than hired muscle, paid to keep the two boys under lock and key.
All other things considered, the whole affair had been an unmitigated disaster. The taste tests were discontinued, as the only thing The Coca-Cola Company could be sure of, was that if changing the formula once had been a disaster, then changing it a second time would be a catastrophe, unless they could absolutely guarantee they had re-discovered the original recipe.
All efforts were directed into the search for the Coca-Cola Three, but this too had turned into a series of blind alleys and red herrings, and the investigation was treading water with no good leads.
The Coca-Cola Company, of course, paid Fizzer and Tupai the agreed hourly rate, but not the huge bonus they would have got for cracking the formula.
It was probably enough to cover Fizzer’s university expenses, but it wouldn’t get him and his dad out of the caravan, and Italian sports cars were definitely out of the question.
Within the boardroom of The Coca-Cola Company a furious debate was raging, which saw some of the most vitriolic speeches the walnut-lined walls had witnessed. Some of those present, including Anastasia Borkin, wanted to come clean with the American public and let them know of the kidnappings and the reason for the change in the formula.
‘They’ll sympathise,’ she expounded, whenever she had the chance. ‘They’ll take pity on us and forgive us the new taste while we keep searching.’
Others wanted to continue to deny any change had occurred, as if it were just some collective fantasy.
‘There are millions of Coke drinkers out there who are continuing to drink the new flavour,’ was Ricardo’s argument. ‘We’ve already alienated the Coke fans. If we admit there really was a change, then all we’ll do is alienate everyone else. Deny, deny, deny. We’ll suffer, but we’ll survive. Wash our dirty linen in public and we won’t last out the year.’
Borkin thought Ricardo was more concerned about lasting out the year as Vice-President (Production) than he was about Coca-Cola, the Company, lasting out the year.
Eventually, of course, the arraignment took place, and, after signing affidavits, both Tupai and Fizzer were allowed to return home. First class, which was part of The Coca-Cola Company’s way of saying sorry.
Borkin herself drove them to the airport, in her own private car. Somehow the brightly coloured company limousines seemed inappropriate for what was not a brightly coloured occasion.
The farewell was long and quite emotional, but she eventually watched them walk away through security to their waiting flight with an overwhelming feeling of guilt. Guilt born of seeing them arrive, excited and happy with their heads held high, and now to be sending them off home again. Defeated. Dejected. Disillusioned.
THE HEIMLICH MANOEUVRE
Sharron Palmer smiled sweetly at the two young men she had been asked to chaperone as she checked their tray-tables and seatbelts.
The shorter of the two hardly fitted into the airline seat, so broad were his shoulders. It was lucky they were flying first class, she thought, as the seats were considerably narrower back in economy.
They didn’t look like her usual first class passengers and they didn’t act like them either. First class passengers often had high expectations that were somehow always disappointed. Usually they made Sharron feel as though she were directly responsible for all the indignities they had to suffer in their fully reclinable, extra-sized, super-comfortable seats. They blamed her for the noise of the engines, filtered through the sound protection and insulation of the plane, that interfered with their enjoyment of the in-flight movies, which they considered to be very poorly selected and most unsuitable for playing on an aircraft.
These young men, on the other hand, found the first class cabin a source of amazement; even the buttons that made the seats go up and down seemed like something that had been put there just for their entertainment. A fact which appeared to grate on the nerves of the other passengers in the cabin. However, looking at the disdainful expressions compared to the sheer youthful exuberance of the two boys, Sharron happily ignored the pointed looks and let the two have fun.
Later, she thought, she’d see if the captain would let them visit the flight deck. It wasn’t as easy to arrange such things as it had been a few years ago, but she thought she could convince him.
After their initial enthusiasm for the gadgets and first class gimmicks, though, they settled down quietly, a little too quietly. There was an air of adventure about them, as though they had just been on one, but overlaid on that was a sadness, a feeling that things had not gone well. Sharron Palmer was pretty good at reading people after fifteen years of dealing with their little foibles and quirks, jammed in a tin can with them at thirty thousand feet for sometimes a day at a time. She often passed the flight times by guessing what was going on in their lives, behind the emotionless faces, make-up and coiffured hair.
White, T. and Boyd, F. as she read from the passenger manifest, had probably been to Disneyland, she decided, and maybe some of the rides had been shut.
Whoever was paying for their fares – and judging by their clothes, it wasn’t their parents – had not asked for any special treatment, but Sharron felt that they deserved, and maybe even needed, a little looking after, so she made sure they had everything and then some.
It was about fourteen hours to Sydney, and then another four to Auckland after that. It was an odd dogleg of a flight but, as it was a Qantas flight, they routed through Sydney or Melbourne.
Sharron was tall – that was a requirement of the job for certain technical and safety reasons – she was blonde and she was bubbly. At least that was how most of her passengers would describe her to their families and friends; if indeed, they bothered to describe her at all, which most of them wouldn’t. And bubbly, when used to describe Sharron, was not the insult that it could be when describing some other people. It wasn’t a ditzy kind of bubbliness, for Sharron’s eyes shone with an insightful intelligence. It was more the expression of an effervescent personality and a life that could not be contained. All of her passengers liked her, usually immediately they met her. Which didn’t stop them from treating her like a labour-saving appli
ance.
The meals in first class were served on delicate looking, but robust, Wedgwood china. The forks and spoons were silver, although the knives were plastic, as required by law. The first class meals were both nutritionally excellent and, actually, quite delicious as well, and had won several airline cuisine competitions.
Dinner included cheese (Australian) and two salty crackers (also Australian). This fact may seem like mindless trivia, but was to become vitally important by the end of the meal.
Sharron paused at the seats of the two young men and with a smile asked, ‘Can I get you two anything to drink? And don’t ask for beer, because you’re not old enough and I’d get in trouble.’
Tupai laughed. ‘Just water for me, thanks, wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.’
He was quite softly spoken. Somehow she had expected a rough, rasping voice to go with the burly frame.
The taller one smiled as well. ‘I’ll have a Coke, thanks.’ Then, to no-one in particular, ‘Might as well get it while it lasts.’
Water and coke, Sharron thought, pouring the drinks in the first class galley. Easily pleased, those two, unlike Mrs Scarborough in 2D who had requested a mixture of Champagne, Perrier, orange juice and brandy, and had rejected the drink twice as not being mixed in the right proportions.
The water came out of a sealed bottle, no airline tank water for first class passengers! The coke was Corker Cola, the only brand the airline now carried. It was good to support a local industry after all, and there was all that fuss at the moment over the taste of actual Coca-Cola.
She made her way, quietly and unhurriedly, as they were taught to do, back to the two boys, past the insistent mutterings of Hendren, E. in 1A, who thought that the bread roll was too cold, or hard or something.
‘There you go,’ she smiled, placing the water on one of the trays and the cola on the other. ‘And there’s plenty more if you want it. We won’t run out.’
‘No, no, that’s not what I meant,’ Boyd, F. said, with a small sad smile. ‘I meant that pretty soon it’s going to be impossible to get Coca-Cola at all. The real thing, I mean, not that new stuff. This is probably one of my last chances.’
‘Oh.’ She squatted down beside the seat for a moment to bring her head below his. They were taught to do that in first class as well. ‘Well, in that case I have a small confession. We don’t actually carry Coca-Cola any more. It’s all Australian now.’
‘Corker Cola?’ he asked, with an expression of dismay.
‘Sorry. Do you want something else?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s OK. I wouldn’t want to put you to any more trouble. You’ve been so nice.’
‘Actually, you’re the one who has been so nice,’ she said, and meant it. ‘You and your friend.’
‘Fiz … Fraser,’ he said. ‘And this is my mate, Tupai.’
‘Tupai. Is that Samoan?’
There was a quick exchange of glances between the two as if this happened a lot.
‘Actually it’s a Maori name. I’m half Maori and half Chinese.’
‘Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get you?’
‘No,’ Fizzer said, and Tupai shook his head. ‘We’re fine thanks.’
They demolished the meal, as two growing lads should; quite unlike Peckinshaw in 5B who barely touched it, and pronounced it inedible when she came to take the plate away.
The cola was untouched, she saw, as she passed Fraser, and if there had been any way to replace it with a Coca-Cola, even if she’d had one of her own in her personal bag, she would have.
Just as she passed, Fizzer erupted into a fit of coughing, crumbs and bits of cracker spraying over the back of the seat in front of him. She quickly turned to see if there was anything she could do. Once a passenger had actually started choking in her section. She had grabbed him up out of his seat and performed the Heimlich manoeuvre on him and saved his life.
This didn’t seem that serious though, just a bit of cracker that had gone down the wrong way, she thought.
Fizzer coughed and pounded on his chest with his fist but waved a hand at her to show he was OK.
After a moment of throat clearing, he reached out and took the glass of Corker Cola to wash it all down. His face froze. He looked as if he were going into shock.
‘Are you OK?’ Sharron asked quickly, dropping Peckinshaw’s plate to the ground, ready to do whatever she had to, to save this nice young man’s life.
He nodded, turning slowly to look at her. He swallowed. Then he took another, longer sip from the glass. He pursed his lips and ran it around a few times inside his mouth before swallowing.
Finally, he said emphatically, ‘This is not Corker Cola.’ As if somehow he could tell the difference. ‘It’s Coca-Cola.’
Sharron shook her head, but he insisted and wouldn’t believe her till she showed him the can.
CORKER, BONZER, DINKY DI
The Coca-Cola Company of Atlanta, Georgia, sued Corker Cola Aust. Pty Ltd., of Sydney, Australia, when they first launched their product, claiming that the name ‘Corker Cola’ was too close to the name of their own brand ‘Coca-Cola’ and therefore was in breach of the laws of ‘Passing Off’, which prevent one product from attempting to pass itself off as that of its competitor.
Corker Cola argued, successfully, that ‘Corker’ was a time-honoured Australian expression for ‘Good, Great, Excellent or Jolly Well Done’ and, therefore, was no more an example of ‘passing off’ than if they had called it, ‘Bonzer Cola’, ‘Dinky Di Cola’, or even ‘Cracker Cola’ although, in truth, that was more of a New Zealand expression.
It was an Australian judge.
A cold war had existed between the two companies ever since, and each had carved out its own share of the cola market. Coca-Cola took the high ground of purists, connoisseurs and the more discerning drinker, while Corker Cola won over the low ground of the bulk market and the price-conscious drinker; those who would drink anything black and bubbly providing it didn’t come directly from the outflow of an aluminium smelter, and even that, providing it was cold enough.
Fizzer had never thought of Corker Cola as anything but a cheap Australian knock-off brand, but he looked at the company now from a whole new perspective: as kidnappers, spies, and possibly even murderers. It was a moderately disturbing point of view.
Since the fateful sip of cola on the Qantas flight for Sydney, a number of things had happened simultaneously, most of which Fizzer knew about, although there were a couple that he didn’t.
Sharron, the flight attendant, who seemed to have adopted them since their arrival on board for no good reason other than the warmth of her own heart, was still up in the cockpit. She had been there on and off for the last twenty minutes trying to arrange an Extra-ordinary Departure for them in Sydney, which meant getting their tickets altered and their luggage off the plane.
‘That’s not really possible,’ she’d said doubtfully when Fizzer had first asked, but he’d heard the word ‘really’ as meaning that it wasn’t impossible and had implored her to ask someone, without telling her the reason why. The amount of time and effort she was now going to on their behalf quite astounded him, and he didn’t understand why she was so accommodating, so caring.
The other thing he knew about was the activity now underway in Auckland, New Zealand. It was after hours, and the night duty receptionist at Coca-Cola Amatil had, at first, refused to connect his call to Harry Truman’s mobile phone, citing privacy laws and company policy, but something in Fizzer’s voice must have convinced her at least to phone Mr Truman and let him know who was calling him from an air-phone on a 747 in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Harry had taken the call at once.
‘I don’t know who to trust,’ Fizzer had started, ‘except you.’
It had taken ten minutes of incredulous questions from Harry before Fizzer finally managed to bring him up to date with the astounding fact that Corker Cola had the secret formula, and give him instructions for what he needed him to do
.
In Atlanta, Georgia, well beyond the scope of any intuitive powers that Fizzer might or might not have, Anastasia Borkin was preparing a trap. If she’d known what Fizzer was up to, she might have organised things differently, but her psychic powers were no stronger than his.
And on another 747, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, Dennis Cray, fourth dan karate black belt, mountain climber, blackwater diver and bojutsu expert, was feeling like anything but the toughest man in the world, no matter what his students might think of him.
The 100 man kumite had been harder than he could have dreamed. Fighting one hundred karate opponents of varying levels of skill, one after the other, he had discovered, could really knock the stuffing out of you. The bruises and welts that covered his body would be there for weeks, and he was fairly sure that he had cracked his left radius, the smaller of the two bones in his forearm. That was not a major problem in itself, as the ulna, the larger of the two bones, would act as a natural splint while its little cousin healed.
Dennis had the ‘Golden Oldies’ channel selected on the music system, and the Beach Boys’ Surfin’ Safari was blaring out as loud as he could get it without annoying the lumpy woman in the unusual red felt dress seated next to him. Surfin’ Safari reminded him of Reiko, the beautiful Japanese girl who had been one of the adjudicators on the kumite panel. That made no sense at all, because surfing in 1960’s California was about as far removed from modern day karate tournaments in Japan as it was possible to get. But then again, everything reminded him of Reiko at the moment.
Reiko was to join him in New Zealand in a couple of months, and they had a month-long holiday planned, most of which would be spent either high in the air, astride a snow-capped mountain, or deep under the earth, with a little bungee jumping and high-speed jet boating thrown in for light relief. Reiko, incredibly, shared the same outdoor interests as he did.
The Real Thing Page 9