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.
Life was looking good at the moment, Dennis thought. The only thing that had dampened his mood just a little was the fact that his direct flight to Auckland had been cancelled due to bad weather and he had been rescheduled on an alternative flight, with a four-hour stopover in Sydney.