A brief Synopsis of Stolen Time
By Al Noteman.
Samantha McManus and her lover, Pete Ford are contracted to deliver super-yacht 'Chameleon' from Cape Town to Brazil. En-route they are diverted to the diamond coast where a huge heist is in progress. The Peoples Liberation Army of Namibia - (PLAN), has moved a massive cache of uncut diamonds from Namibia’s mine at Oranjezainia on to a deep-sea trawler heading for Angola. The gems will finance the overthrow of the Government of Namibia.
Directors of Azainia Mining meet to decide how best to recover their stolen gems but find they have only two choices.
Alert the Namibian authorities and risk being landed with a huge tax bill as well as sharing any profits among shareholders.
Alternatively, keep quiet and recover the gems in their own way!
Directors of Azainia Mining meet to decide how best to recover their stolen gems but find they have only two choices.
Alert the Namibian authorities and risk being landed with a huge tax bill as well as sharing any profits among shareholders.
Alternatively, keep quiet and recover the gems in their own way!
Lofty Lowland, the tough head of mining, persuades the Chairman that his method is the best option, leaving the directors free to sell the gems in South America and avoid paying Namibian tax. After board room infighting, Lowland gets his way so sets into operation a daring plan.
He recruits Karl Muller an ex-mercenary who carries out an armed helicopter assault on the escaping trawler managing to subdue its crew. The gems are transferred to Chameleon, which is then routed via the islands of St. Helena and Ascension. On closing the Brazilian coast, agents of PLAN attack and a bloody sea battle ensues; killing some and leaving Chameleon badly damaged. The yacht is repaired in Jacare’ then heads up the Amazon to the jungle City of Manaus to meet Chameleon's new owner.
He recruits Karl Muller an ex-mercenary who carries out an armed helicopter assault on the escaping trawler managing to subdue its crew. The gems are transferred to Chameleon, which is then routed via the islands of St. Helena and Ascension. On closing the Brazilian coast, agents of PLAN attack and a bloody sea battle ensues; killing some and leaving Chameleon badly damaged. The yacht is repaired in Jacare’ then heads up the Amazon to the jungle City of Manaus to meet Chameleon's new owner.
Arriving there, they learn that the diamonds are to finance a gruesome life extension operation for the terminally ill Chairman of Azainia Mining. Doctor’s Andrade and Narunski, run the secret Clinica Manaus and have perfected an operation that promises to be the fountain of youth but with terrible strings attached and a price tag, that only the super rich can afford.
Pedro Escadore, the Colombian drug lord and owner of Chameleon, finances this clinic. However, word of these life-extending operations reach SWASP, a little known branch of the CIA. Ben Polinski its evil director decides to take control of the clinic so that he can use the procedures on third world dictators to further his aims of world domination. He plans to create a new American Empire. By offering them eternal life, he figures their economies, armies, minerals and labour force, could be controlled for the benefit of this new Empire.
Since the life span of a recipient of eternal life depends on regular servicing by the medical team at the clinic, there would be no disobedience. It seems Polinski is unstoppable until Karl Muller and the crew of Chameleon decides to take a closer look at the Clinica Manaus. What they find is beyond belief, but the involvement of the drug lord, SWASP and the CIA, suggests a connection to the very heart of the US Government.
Muller's small team is no match for such an Organisation so he alerts the British MI6 on neutral Grand Cayman in the hope that somehow SWASP and its evil director can be prevented from creating an American version of Hitler's Third Reich!
Chapter One, Cape Town - South Africa - July 1966.
Fifty murders a day and a rape every five minutes made South Africa a pretty dangerous place to live in the sixties, especially for a cop. The police had an impossible task on their hands holding back the tide of deprived humanity in the black townships, so the last thing they needed now was another gruesome discovery on the mountain. No one could explain the deformed body parts found up there but the authorities realised that panic would ensue if the media got wind of it. So far however, they had managed to keep the lid on it.
Sergeant Finney was tired and preparing to go home after a late shift when the radio crackled into life. It was past midnight and one of his patrol vans was reporting in as usual.
"We've found another! Much bigger and almost complete this time," the officer reported.
"Oh shit, better get it down to the SPCA then, Dirk," Finney responded.
"I don't think so Sir, you'd better come and see this one." Finney sighed, then noted the officer's location; he was due off at two-o'clock and did not fancy being tied up all night with another stinking carcass.
"OK, I'm on my way," he replied.
The Sergeant gunned his old Ford Fairlane up on to DeWaal Drive where the officer had reported finding the body. A flashing blue light announced the location of the patrol van, parked up the mountain road, Finney turned onto the flooded, rutted track and winced as his car bumped and skidded its way to the rendezvous.
Cape Town in July is cold, wet and windy, it was all three that night as Finney got out of his car. Pissed off at being dragged out in the dead of night again, he slammed the car-door and struggled against the horizontal rain, to confront his underlings.
"OK Dirk, where is this fucking thing?" Dirk led the way up the track to a bend - he stopped under a Port Jackson tree and shone his torch on to an old army blanket that was covering the shape of a body. Finney shot a look of utter contempt at his officer.
"You've wasted my time Dirk, it’s just another drifter, no wonder he's dead with this bloody weather; poor sod must have died of hypothermia. Take it to the City morgue as usual man." With that Finney pulled down his cap and walked back down the track, hurrying to get out of the foul weather and back into his warm car.
"Wait!" Dirk called. "I'll uncover it for you." Finney cursed as he turned back to face the blowing rain and strode back to where the body lay.
"This had better be good," he snarled. Using a dead branch, Dirk gently lifted the old army blanket to expose the cadaver below.
"Jesus Christ!" Finney cried. "What the hell is that?" he reeled at the sight and awful smell of the monster lying below the blanket.
"Cover the bloody thing up and get it in the back of the van quick, we can't let the press get wind of this one." The three men rolled the body up in a plastic sheet then carried it down the track to where the van was parked.
"Where do we take this one to?" Dirk wanted to know. Finney thought for a minute. "Well, we can't take 'this' to the City morgue or the SPCA, so you'll have to bring it back
to the station while we think it through." Returning to his car, he wound down the window.
"I'll see you boys at the station then, just bring it around the back and we'll dump it in the garage for now," he shouted, then drove off.
The Sergeant made sure there was no one in the lane behind the station before opening the disused garage door. He was busy moving aside years of junk that had been stored there when the patrol van approached and skidded to a halt in the cleared space. The men opened the rear door and Finney helped them lift the body out of the van.
"Where do you want it?" Dirk's muffled voice asked, through a scarf covering his nose.
Finney looked around.
"Hold it there a minute boys," he said, as he pulled up an old pool table, "right, stick it on here." They did as instructed then got out of there as fast as they could, but Finney was still fascinated. He lifted the plastic sheet to take another look then drew back as the revolting smell hit him again but his curiosity compelled him to look once more at the horrible apparition below the sheet. He shuddered and felt the bile rising in his throat so covered the thing up again quickly before he threw up. Locking the door behind him, he made his way to the two men in the patrol van outside.
"Now listen you two," he said, through the open window, "not a bloody word to anyone, if this gets out, you two will be looking for new jobs, do you follow?"
They nodded.
"Right then, get on with your patrol I'll deal with this now."
First thing next morning, Finney placed a call to a number that he had been given should more unexplained body parts turn up. The telephone was answered by the usual brusque voice.
"Colonel Marais here."
"Oh yes, Colonel, this is Sergeant Finney at the Woodstock Police Station in Cape Town."
"Yes, what is it now Sergeant?"
"Well Sir, my patrolmen have found something else on the mountain, a strange body."
"Where is it now?" the Colonel asked.
"Here in the station Sir," Finney confirmed, "it’s in the old garage."
"Has anyone else seen it?"
"Only my men, and whoever killed it!"
"OK stay there, I will send someone to collect it from you right away," the Colonel ordered. "In the meantime, do not mention this to anyone, especially the press. Do you understand me Sergeant?"
"Yes Sir,"
Twenty minutes later, a black Chevy van pulled up at the rear of the police station and two huge men got out.
"Where is it?" they demanded in Afrikaans. Finney opened the garage door and pointed to the pool table. One of them pulled back the plastic sheet.
"Holy shit," he said holding his nose. "How the hell did this one escape?"
Finney overheard them cursing the mental hospital security system.
"We'll take it from here Sergeant, you never saw a thing, if you know what I mean, this is a 'Boss' matter now."
Finney nodded, he knew that you never crossed the boys from the Bureau of State Security, if you wished to remain healthy.
The Boss men loaded the body into the back of the Chevy, slammed the doors and sped off. Finney placed another call, this time to his contact at the mental home.
"I've just had the Boss boys around here again," he said.
"What was it this time?" his contact asked.
"You're not going to believe this," Finney replied.
"Try me."
"Well, it’s human I think, dead of course and rotten, must have been dead a week or so, not sure what sex, we never got a proper look at that part. I suppose the Boss boys will find out and establish a cause of death but whatever killed it did it a favour."
"How do you mean, did it a favour?"
"Well, it was some sort of freak, it must have been created up at that lab in the funny farm again, it’s just like the others but this one is complete and has two bloody heads."
"Two heads! God in heaven, what have they done now?" Finny heard his contact cursing then the line went dead.
Chapter Two, The Union Buildings - Pretoria.
The Grand Architect of apartheid, Doctor Hendrik Frensch Verwoerd had been the Prime minister of South Africa for eight years, after being elected by a minority vote on the 2nd September1958. Through brutal policies and an efficient police force of mainly Afrikaners, he had kept the lid firmly shut on the black population since then. This allowed the minority white population to prosper tremendously. Under his premiership, white South Africa had achieved one of the highest standards of living on the planet and had made amazing advances in many fields, especially in medicine. The Country had become a world leader in organ transplants and rumour had it that they were close to carrying out the world's first heart transplant on a human being.
Today, however, Dr. Verwoerd was not a happy man. His Boss operatives in Cape Town had just informed him of another bizarre find on Table Mountain. Verwoerd knew that the liberal press was trying to find some scandal to discredit his iron rule, so he summoned his cabinet ministers to an urgent meeting at the Union Buildings, Pretoria.
Doctor Albert Hertzog, the Minister of Health, was getting a verbal tongue-lashing.
"What in God's name are those butchers doing down in the Cape?" the Prime Minister bellowed. "Have they no respect for human life or regard for the rule of law? Imagine what the press will make this. That poor deformed soul they found must belong to someone, he must have a family."
"Mr. Prime Minister Sir," Hertzog soothed. "Our people have got rid of that monster just like before. There will be no trace and no stories in the press. As for family, there is no family, the man was from a mental Institute." he added.
"Mental Institute, good God man, are you telling me that we are experimenting on the insane now?"
"But Sir, these are dangerous people." Hertzog countered. "They have no future in our country and it costs the State a fortune to subsidise these places: my department considers this vital research justified if we are to push back the frontiers of medical science. I am sure you will agree Sir, that it has been worth while. We are so close to a breakthrough now that it would be a crime to interfere with this research, no matter where they find their donors." he concluded, undaunted.
"I do hope you're right, Doctor, we need some favourable press for a change. Now please order your researchers, whoever they are, to be more careful where they dispose of their failures. This business could wreck the legitimate work being done by Professor Barnard: they would start to compare us with Hitler."
Hertzog was quite correct in his predictions, but the Prime Minister, would never see the day. Hendrik Verwoerd was assassinated just fourteen months before the greatest medical breakthrough of the twentieth century took place. Dimitri Tsafendas, a humble parliamentary porter butchered the Prime Minister before a shocked house during a session in Parliament Buildings, Cape Town, on the 6th September 1966.
A new Prime Minister was duly elected; again, by a minority vote and this one built on the apartheid foundations laid by Dr. Verwoerd. He even introduced some new, more punitive laws of his own, laws that would eventually lead to the demise of the all-powerful Nationalist Government, and pave the way for independence and Black Majority Rule.
Chapter Three, Groote Schuur Hospital - Cape Town 1967.
At last, apartheid South Africa had something to shout about apart from the Springbok rugby team. Doctor Christiaan Barnard and his team of transplant surgeons had made the most amazing medical breakthrough in history. The ruling Nationalist Party could not wait to invite the international press they so despised, to report to a news hungry world, that an Afrikaner had been the first to achieve the impossible.
It all started to make sense to Sergeant Finney as he tried to clear his cluttered desk. "Maybe we'll get some peace now Dirk," he quipped as he scanned the pages of the
Cape Times.
"It says here, 'After many failed experiments on animals the team eventually succeeded in perfecting what everyone thought was impossible.' Well, we know where the bloody failures were dumped, hey Dirk." Finney laughed.
"Yes, but why would they be creating creatures with two heads, in an attempt to get the heart stuff right?" Dirk questioned innocently. "Anyway we found that thing near the funny farm, not Barnard's place," he added.
Finney thought about this for a minute and felt a bit uneasy. Maybe he should tell the
Press what they had found on the mountain. He decided to say nothing for now however.
Those goons at Boss had destroyed all the evidence, so no matter what he told the Press, no one would ever believe him. He also knew that far more important people than himself had simply disappeared without trace, for much less a crime than grassing on the Nationalists.
He returned to the banner headline on the front page of the morning newspaper.
WORLD'S FIRST HEART TRANSPLANT -
Performed in South Africa.
As he started to read about the amazing events and took in the gory details of the fascinating operations, his mouth suddenly became very dry.
"How about a pot of coffee Dirk?"
If Doctor Barnard had not removed the heart from the chest of a brain dead man in
December 1967, the events recorded in the latter part of this story would probably not have happened. The donor died within minutes of course, but his heart continued to beat in the recipient's chest for another eighteen days. Barnard had grafted it into Louis Washkansky's chest cavity where it would continue to beat after his own diseased heart was discarded. This now commonplace procedure blew the minds of the established medical profession at the time and propelled Barnard into the limelight of a fascinated world. Soon, he became a celebrity with the jet-set lifestyle of a Hollywood film star. The bold and imaginative steps taken by this former back room researcher would change forever the way the world thought about life and mortality.
The religious community was outraged, they questioned the morality of such operations and this new challenge to God’s authority, they warned that cheating death in this way would lead to great evil in the future. This story confirms that indeed it did.
Chapter Four, Botafogo - Rio de Janeiro.
In a small laboratory at the Rocha Maia general hospital, in Rio de Janeiro's Botafogo district, a young and brilliant surgeon read the earth-shattering news in 'O Globo' the daily newspaper. Unlike many others, he was not at all surprised that someone had at last carried out a heart transplant. Dr. Roberto Andrade cut the item from the newspaper and slipped it into his coat pocket.
He realised that he had to find a way to be transferred to Cape Town where this medical magic had been performed. The whole future depends on this, he thought. I must learn the secrets of overcoming organ rejection that has confounded my team in their experiments on animals. Determinedly, Andrade persuaded his administrators to arrange a transfer to South Africa, arguing that this was the only way to further the Brazilian team’s knowledge.
The Varig, Boeing 707, left Rio's, 'Aeroporto do Galeao' and whisked Andrade over the
South Atlantic Ocean to arrive later the same day in Cape Town.
To meet him at the D.F Malan International Airport was a young researcher from the local medical school.
"You're just in time Doctor, Barnard has done it again," the young man said, handing Andrade the morning newspaper.
He realised that he had to find a way to be transferred to Cape Town where this medical magic had been performed. The whole future depends on this, he thought. I must learn the secrets of overcoming organ rejection that has confounded my team in their experiments on animals. Determinedly, Andrade persuaded his administrators to arrange a transfer to South Africa, arguing that this was the only way to further the Brazilian team’s knowledge.
The Varig, Boeing 707, left Rio's, 'Aeroporto do Galeao' and whisked Andrade over the
South Atlantic Ocean to arrive later the same day in Cape Town.
To meet him at the D.F Malan International Airport was a young researcher from the local medical school.
"You're just in time Doctor, Barnard has done it again," the young man said, handing Andrade the morning newspaper.
WOMAN IN LATEST HEART SWAP!
The Cape Times announced across its front page. The article explained that the latest recipient was a middle-aged coloured woman.
"Obrigado," Andrade answered automatically, then corrected this to, "thank you," as he struggled with his little used English. The young researcher introduced himself simply as Daanie and smiled, proud to be associated with these historic events. Daanie picked up the luggage and headed towards the waiting Mercedes Benz.
During the journey, the young South African enlightened Andrade to the strange laws that had to be observed in South Africa. Official laws, governing what can and cannot be done between the races.
Turning off the modern highway, Daanie pointed out the squalid African Township of Langa with its broken streets and rows of shack like hovels. Here, thousands of poor, displaced black people, with no hope left, did their best to eke out a miserable existence. A further detour took them past Athlone, a suburb reserved for the Indian community.
Though Athlone was more affluent, huge concrete cooling towers dominated the skyline and the hot steam these produced from the adjacent sewage water perfumed the township.
Later, and in stark contrast to these ghettos, Andrade discovered the splendour of Clifton, with its golden beaches and expensive houses, perched on the edge of sheer cliffs. He would visit Constantia with its famous Vineyards; their Dutch gabled mansions built on the lush green slopes of the twelve apostles. He would learn that these beautiful places, sheltered from the worst of the Cape weather were reserved for the wealthy whites and more recently, for the new black politicians and religious leaders.
The big car swept up DeWaal drive and onto the off ramp that allows access to the
Hospital grounds. Here the sheer beauty of the vista struck the South American. Ahead lay
the massive bulk of Devils Peak with deer grazing on its park-like slopes, the vertical cliffs of Table Mountain complete with its tablecloth of white cloud, receded to the right. To their extreme right lay, Kloof Nek pass, its winding road separating the Mountain from the volcano-like peak of Lions Head. This majestic scene stood guard above the hospital, while below, the shimmering white-topped waves of the cold Atlantic crashed onto the beaches of Table Bay.
Andrade eventually met Doctor Barnard and his famous transplant team then observed the latest heart recipient through the windows of the intensive care unit. The woman looked well enough, he thought, as she sat up in bed reading.
"Our Dorothy’s doing just fine Doctor," a pretty, black nurse in a starched white uniform
explained, "he’s much better at it now," she whispered conspiratorially, "rumour has it, that this coloured lady has been given a white heart." Even Dr. Barnard had high hopes that this modest woman would prove to a sceptical world that his new procedures would add 'quality, as well as longevity, to the lives of his patients.
Andrade soon moved out of the Hotel where the hospital administration had
initially placed him and into a small apartment on Queen Victoria Street. Overlooking the famous gardens, this new location put Andrade within walking distance of the Mount Nelson Hotel.
This was a world class establishment catering for the rich international travellers, and merry English widows. Around the corner, in Long Street was the infamous Mountain Dew Hotel, by contrast, this Venue catered for out-of-work expatriates and local misfit’s. Here, the local prostitutes offered a five-minute quickie or a toothless blowjob for the price of a Lion lager.
During the two years spent in the Mother City, Andrade discovered that there were two morality laws at work in South Africa. The official one, that Daanie had explained when he arrived, and the other, a natural but unofficial law that operated with limited discretion in the city streets. The young doctor had witnessed and taken part in, love across the colour line many times, along with thousands of other white men and black women over the years, despite the apartheid policy that officially forbade it. How else did the coloured race of people evolve, he reasoned, the early white settlers and visitors like me must have created them.
Working with the greatest team of transplant surgeons in the world had fired
Andrade's imagination, as heart and even heart-lung transplants became everyday events.
No longer warranting front-page cover, complex and expensive operations were carried out to save the lives of black children from other parts of Africa, completely free of charge. It was this conundrum, that confused Nationalist Party critics during the apartheid era, when the Country was ruled by a very right wing but seemingly caring, or was it a cunning party?
A Nationalistic Government, hoping to win international acceptance for its brutal and repressive apartheid policies, through the brilliant work of its devoted surgeons.
It was the other operations however, the secret ones, never leaked or reported to the media, that intrigued Andrade. These illegal experiments were conducted at private labs around the Cape, without the authorities being aware; they would shape Andrade's future even more than the time he spent with Barnard.
"Obrigado," Andrade answered automatically, then corrected this to, "thank you," as he struggled with his little used English. The young researcher introduced himself simply as Daanie and smiled, proud to be associated with these historic events. Daanie picked up the luggage and headed towards the waiting Mercedes Benz.
During the journey, the young South African enlightened Andrade to the strange laws that had to be observed in South Africa. Official laws, governing what can and cannot be done between the races.
Turning off the modern highway, Daanie pointed out the squalid African Township of Langa with its broken streets and rows of shack like hovels. Here, thousands of poor, displaced black people, with no hope left, did their best to eke out a miserable existence. A further detour took them past Athlone, a suburb reserved for the Indian community.
Though Athlone was more affluent, huge concrete cooling towers dominated the skyline and the hot steam these produced from the adjacent sewage water perfumed the township.
Later, and in stark contrast to these ghettos, Andrade discovered the splendour of Clifton, with its golden beaches and expensive houses, perched on the edge of sheer cliffs. He would visit Constantia with its famous Vineyards; their Dutch gabled mansions built on the lush green slopes of the twelve apostles. He would learn that these beautiful places, sheltered from the worst of the Cape weather were reserved for the wealthy whites and more recently, for the new black politicians and religious leaders.
The big car swept up DeWaal drive and onto the off ramp that allows access to the
Hospital grounds. Here the sheer beauty of the vista struck the South American. Ahead lay
the massive bulk of Devils Peak with deer grazing on its park-like slopes, the vertical cliffs of Table Mountain complete with its tablecloth of white cloud, receded to the right. To their extreme right lay, Kloof Nek pass, its winding road separating the Mountain from the volcano-like peak of Lions Head. This majestic scene stood guard above the hospital, while below, the shimmering white-topped waves of the cold Atlantic crashed onto the beaches of Table Bay.
Andrade eventually met Doctor Barnard and his famous transplant team then observed the latest heart recipient through the windows of the intensive care unit. The woman looked well enough, he thought, as she sat up in bed reading.
"Our Dorothy’s doing just fine Doctor," a pretty, black nurse in a starched white uniform
explained, "he’s much better at it now," she whispered conspiratorially, "rumour has it, that this coloured lady has been given a white heart." Even Dr. Barnard had high hopes that this modest woman would prove to a sceptical world that his new procedures would add 'quality, as well as longevity, to the lives of his patients.
Andrade soon moved out of the Hotel where the hospital administration had
initially placed him and into a small apartment on Queen Victoria Street. Overlooking the famous gardens, this new location put Andrade within walking distance of the Mount Nelson Hotel.
This was a world class establishment catering for the rich international travellers, and merry English widows. Around the corner, in Long Street was the infamous Mountain Dew Hotel, by contrast, this Venue catered for out-of-work expatriates and local misfit’s. Here, the local prostitutes offered a five-minute quickie or a toothless blowjob for the price of a Lion lager.
During the two years spent in the Mother City, Andrade discovered that there were two morality laws at work in South Africa. The official one, that Daanie had explained when he arrived, and the other, a natural but unofficial law that operated with limited discretion in the city streets. The young doctor had witnessed and taken part in, love across the colour line many times, along with thousands of other white men and black women over the years, despite the apartheid policy that officially forbade it. How else did the coloured race of people evolve, he reasoned, the early white settlers and visitors like me must have created them.
Working with the greatest team of transplant surgeons in the world had fired
Andrade's imagination, as heart and even heart-lung transplants became everyday events.
No longer warranting front-page cover, complex and expensive operations were carried out to save the lives of black children from other parts of Africa, completely free of charge. It was this conundrum, that confused Nationalist Party critics during the apartheid era, when the Country was ruled by a very right wing but seemingly caring, or was it a cunning party?
A Nationalistic Government, hoping to win international acceptance for its brutal and repressive apartheid policies, through the brilliant work of its devoted surgeons.
It was the other operations however, the secret ones, never leaked or reported to the media, that intrigued Andrade. These illegal experiments were conducted at private labs around the Cape, without the authorities being aware; they would shape Andrade's future even more than the time he spent with Barnard.
Back in Brazil, Andrade lost no time in setting himself up as the expert, copying the latest medical firsts from around the world.
Obtaining finance by convincing his administrators that his work, would one day, prolong life beyond that of the heart transplants. His small team had proved that they could be of value to humanity. To the wealthy clients able to fork-out the huge fees demanded for his specialised treatment. As usual, the wealthy here in Rio, would continue to get richer, but now they could expect to live longer as well, all thanks to Doctor Andrade's expertise.
During these productive years in Rio de Janeiro, Andrade’s team encountered rich patients from Brazil and the surrounding countries. Men and women, who had overdone the good life, sought Andrade at his clinic. It became common for the team to rebuild a collapsed nose, that had snorted too many lines of cocaine, or rebuild whole bodies ravaged by heroin and its associated social diseases. While doing such re-constructive surgery, Andrade met the head of the Colombian cartel. The powerful drug lord was there to see one of his own sons successfully treated for heroin addiction and syphilis. The good doctor it seemed could cure them all provided the funds were forthcoming and this patient’s father could afford to buy the world.
Pedro Escadore was a legend throughout South America and had a whole drawer of files devoted to him at the Interpol HQ in Paris. He was one of the worlds most feared and powerful underworld personalities and certainly its richest. Recently, Escadore's fame had spread due to the enormous cash settlement made to the Colombian Government, allowing it to repay its entire national debt. This rare philanthropic gesture made Escadore untouchable in his home Country, guaranteeing him freedom from prosecution for life.
Escadore's billions were generated through an empire of illegal drug production and distribution, and through the ruthless control he maintained over that empire. The meeting with Escadore, was the second major event to change Andrade's life and that of many others. The drug lord was so impressed by the wonders worked on his favourite son, that he offered Andrade a partnership in a new clinic that the Cartel was building in the Amazon jungle.
A strategy designed to launder the drug millions, by moving into the legitimate and lucrative business of medicine.
Obtaining finance by convincing his administrators that his work, would one day, prolong life beyond that of the heart transplants. His small team had proved that they could be of value to humanity. To the wealthy clients able to fork-out the huge fees demanded for his specialised treatment. As usual, the wealthy here in Rio, would continue to get richer, but now they could expect to live longer as well, all thanks to Doctor Andrade's expertise.
During these productive years in Rio de Janeiro, Andrade’s team encountered rich patients from Brazil and the surrounding countries. Men and women, who had overdone the good life, sought Andrade at his clinic. It became common for the team to rebuild a collapsed nose, that had snorted too many lines of cocaine, or rebuild whole bodies ravaged by heroin and its associated social diseases. While doing such re-constructive surgery, Andrade met the head of the Colombian cartel. The powerful drug lord was there to see one of his own sons successfully treated for heroin addiction and syphilis. The good doctor it seemed could cure them all provided the funds were forthcoming and this patient’s father could afford to buy the world.
Pedro Escadore was a legend throughout South America and had a whole drawer of files devoted to him at the Interpol HQ in Paris. He was one of the worlds most feared and powerful underworld personalities and certainly its richest. Recently, Escadore's fame had spread due to the enormous cash settlement made to the Colombian Government, allowing it to repay its entire national debt. This rare philanthropic gesture made Escadore untouchable in his home Country, guaranteeing him freedom from prosecution for life.
Escadore's billions were generated through an empire of illegal drug production and distribution, and through the ruthless control he maintained over that empire. The meeting with Escadore, was the second major event to change Andrade's life and that of many others. The drug lord was so impressed by the wonders worked on his favourite son, that he offered Andrade a partnership in a new clinic that the Cartel was building in the Amazon jungle.
A strategy designed to launder the drug millions, by moving into the legitimate and lucrative business of medicine.
Within two years of that chance meeting, the 'Clinica Manaus', as it was named, was in operation with Dr. Roberto Andrade installed as head of surgery. Some early successes included the manufacture of the world’s first Malaria vaccine, researched by a young Colombian Doctor. A powerful new drug called AXT, synthesised to help the fight against the Human Immune Virus, and work was proceeding on an Alzheimer’s preventative which made use of stem cells from cloned human embryo's. These were the legal drugs, advertised in the Lancet. The other drugs, however, advertised by Escadore's underworld contacts were far more lucrative.
Synthesised to replace Cocaine, 'Adrenomol' or Amol as the jet set called it was less destructive than the Charlie it replaced; Ravnovine or Ravo as they called it in the top clubs, replaced ecstasy and no one had died from it yet. A substitute for Heroin was being sold to the pushers and authorities alike, the latter trying to help bring their registered addicts off the big ‘H’. These so-called recreational drugs had already brought in millions of dollars for Escadore but they were only a part of the lucrative activities taking place at the clinic.
Wealthy executives, politicians, generals, and celebrities visited the clinic during its first year, lured to San Jose, by the very pushers and pimps that sold them their magic powders. It was here, and not in Manaus as the name implied, that the new clinic lay hidden by the Amazon rain forest. Situated on the banks of the Rio Negro, its location ensured total privacy for the famous clientele who would patronise it. The rain forest, home to the most amazing variety of herbs, plants, and insects on earth, supplied the raw ingredients needed by Escadore's Chemists to manufacture the powerful new drugs.
Andrade soon realised that the remoteness of the clinic allowed him to perform unethical experiments on his patients, without being discovered.
These started out innocently enough, simple procedures to enlarge or reduce world famous breasts without the use of silicone implants. Penis enlargements, for famous but failing super studs and the perfection of an amazing technique referred to as the bionic dick. A well-known hotel magnet complained to Andrade, that he could pull any girl he fancied, never had a problem getting the best hotel suite, but did have a problem keeping it up all night!
"No problemo!" Andrade told him, "it’s a simple hydraulic engineering job, we shall give you the ability to control your own erection from a valve implanted into your left leg, this will allow you to turn your erection on and off at will."
Andrade's research progressed at a frantic pace and long before a Scottish research unit announced the cloning of Dolly, the Brazilian team had already cloned living creatures, frogs, rats and even an orang-utan they called Fred. Fred was the closest thing to a human being and the success of this made Andrade realise that he held the key to the secrets of immortality and unbelievable wealth, he could see that this new knowledge would soon make him as rich as Escadore. By harnessing his skills and the new drugs wisely, he would prolong the lives of his wealthy patient's, his wealth however, would come from selling new life, not the slow death that Escadore peddled. FOR THE ENTIRE STORY, VISIT MY SITE AT http://www.bioprouk.co.uk/
