An end of the world black comedy
by William M Johnson

Sneak Preview

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7. But our unlikely hero, Dr. Daniel Henstein, ‘the greatest scientist the world has never known’, is on the trail of the abducted witness to the killings. Unknowingly assisted in his quest by a stray particle of inspiration from a passing comet, he returns from his sabotage mission against the rainforest development. At the Earth Summit welcoming reception, he confronts Eugene Horatio Adams, CEO of Chicken Shack International Incorporated…

At the cloakroom door, Henstein spotted the dreadful American Ambassador in animated conversation with Ollie Rawson and the CIA station chief. When Eugene Horatio Adams entered, the men shuffled their feet awkwardly and pretended not to know him. Adams cast them a brief supercilious glance. He swept in with the confidence of a man who could make or break governments, his global investments reputedly earning him half a million dollars an hour. He also possessed the air of a man who had a lot to answer for, and the suave arrogance that dared anyone even to ask. The sight set Henstein’s teeth on edge and nudged the needle of his internal barometer onto an imminent storm warning.

He cornered Adams at the champagne fountain.

"Ah, Dr. Henstein, I presume." Henstein frowned. He’d heard that mocking greeting somewhere before.

"How about we dispense with the niceties and you tell me what’s going on up in Aguarico?"

Henstein’s hostility momentarily transformed the debonair smile into a predatory snarl. But Adams quickly recovered his composure.

"I can tell you that several million dollars’ worth of caterpillars and excavators have been destroyed. Whoever was responsible, it was a very foolish act." He treated Henstein to a hard penetrating glare. "You should know better than I that this Summit is all about sustainable exploitation. Chicken Shack Corporation has every intention of exercising its environmental responsibilities in that regard. The government has given our development project at Aguarico a clean bill of health."

Henstein snorted. With enough kickbacks, even razing the entire rainforest would pass the government’s environmental impact assessment with flying colours. "Then why all the subterfuge and stealth?" he demanded.

Adams was patronising in his reply. "Really, Dr. Henstein. I’m disappointed in you. I had not thought of you as an adherent to the school of thought which touts conspiracy theories. The confidentiality surrounding our development project is commensurate with protecting our interests from the prying eyes of our competitors, nothing more."

"Then you won’t mind if I take all the information I have to the press?"

Adams flinched. "All things considered, that might prove very unwise indeed, for reasons you could not possibly know."

"A roundabout way of saying that Chicken Shack and its cronies are responsible for the murders of Dr. Walters and his team, and the sisters of the Mount Christobel Abbey."

Adams blanched, and little tremors played on the muscles of his face through fear or anger, it was impossible to tell which. "You surely cannot imagine that a man of my position and standing would become involved in such sordid affairs? And as far as I am aware, these people have disappeared. There is no evidence whatsoever that they have been murdered."

"Not any more. Not since you removed from circulation the sole surviving witness."

Adams sighed with impatience. "Aguarico has always been a dangerous place, Dr. Henstein. If it transpires that these unfortunate people have indeed been slain, then logic would point to the PLF or the Indians being responsible. I’d have you know that they are not the shy, peaceable people they are touted to be. Several of my men have already been wounded by arrows. These primitive tribes are harassing us constantly."

Good for them, thought Henstein. "Well, I suppose that’s just karma," he said dryly.

"Karma?" Adams asked, mystified, a mocking light in his eyes. "What on Earth is that?"

"Roughly translated? It means you’ll get yours."

"Really, I cannot understand your hostility. I have personally donated millions to the DDF."

"I don’t want to know about your conscience-cleaning, Adams. What I do want to know is this: how can I be sure that Christo is not being held against his will?"

"You must take my word for it. You surely cannot believe that a man in my position would become involved in kidnapping?"

He was right, and Henstein had little doubt that Christo had been lured by visions of streets paved with gold. But it was also true that the thugs masterminding this affair had succeeded in getting the only witness to the Aguarico killings out of circulation with an uncharacteristic finesse. He might be pleading innocence, but a man like Adams didn’t go around adopting orphan waifs out of the goodness of his heart. This wasn’t fucking Hollywood. Henstein’s guess was that as soon as the heat died down, Christo’s life would again be in great jeopardy. Lethal childhood illnesses were quite common in this part of the world.

"I suggest letting events run their natural course, Dr. Henstein. There are dangerous men about who do not possess the scruples that we are blessed with."

Tremors of excitement and a smattering of applause swept through the hall as a puffy-faced and corseted Blanche Lamour lurched onto the stage in a black sequinned evening dress, the orchestra belting out an up-tempo version of one of her old Hollywood screen hits.

"And now," she slurred, "the moment I know you’ve all been waiting for. The Annual Green Globe Awards for Environmental Excellence." At the lectern, she fumbled with an envelope as the orchestra set up a drum roll to heighten the suspense. "And the winners are: Countess Hagola Rasputinoff for Lifelong Dedication to the Welfare of Animals…" In the audience, Hagola, her hand to her chest, gasped in astonishment, her eyes brimming with glycerine tears. "…Gerald van Boek of the Dodo Foundation for Championing the Cause of Sustainable Exploitation…" The audience again erupted into thunderous applause. "…and Eugene Horatio Adams as Corporate Sponsor of the Year…"

This was too much for Henstein, whose barometer suddenly lurched to tropical cyclone. He was just about to dart up onto the stage and seize the microphone when two burly bodyguards hovering in the wings rushed forward, clutched his elbows, lifted him off his feet, and discreetly manhandled him out of the hall. He took some small measure of comfort in seeing Adams’ urbane, confident demeanour shatter into little shards of terror. The Corporate Sponsor of the Year forced a wan smile as the spotlights swivelled over the audience to find him. He must have known that it was a close call.

Henstein was unceremoniously dumped in the deserted corridor outside, and was awarded a contemptuous kick in the ribs for good measure. Doubled up in pain, he was conscious of a large, rotund figure ambling down the corridor towards him. He gazed up helplessly at the advancing apparition. "My dear boy!" the voice echoed heartily, the wobbling body still silhouetted against the fluorescent lights. James McGrawber’s florid moon-shaped face peered down at him, the monocle springing from his right eye as he helped Henstein up onto his feet. McGrawber, an old and trusted acquaintance, was not the sort of journalist who harried potential sources for information. "Care for a tipple, old boy? I’m parched. And you look distinctly out of sorts."

Three hours and two bottles of pilfered champagne later, McGrawber was on the hot scent of a scoop.

"The bodies, old boy," he garbled. "We simply must find those wretched bodies."

He needn’t have worried. Bodies sometimes have an uncanny way of turning up in the most unexpected of places.

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