Field Agent Read online

  “Before I answer that,” he said, “tell me what else you’ve heard from your sources.”

  The question caught me off-guard. Was he asking what I’d heard about the actual soybeans? Or was he fishing for a sign that I’d heard about serious trouble in Iowa? A lesson that had served me well through the years was simply this: Don’t jump to the conclusion that your enemy knows that you know. That has short-circuited a good number of assignments. Better to give an innocent answer and force your opponent to be more transparent in their enquiries.

  “I feel like I’m gossiping on the playground,” I said. “But okay. I’ve heard your product has promise, but that you personally are difficult to deal with. That your brash approach hasn’t been earned yet through experience and success. And, if you want all of my intel, you’ve ruffled a few feathers because your attitude doesn’t mesh with your background, which isn’t in agriculture at all, but in technology. One person labeled you the Silicon Valley Farmer. I don’t think they meant it in an endearing fashion.”

  Now, from the corner of my eye, Diana’s restless worry was fully evident. I may have been the first potential customer who’d ever spoken to the billionaire boy wonder this way, and she’d set up the appointment.

  Rather than let the wound sit there and fester, however, I followed it up with the salve.

  “But frankly, Jason, I have no respect for people who let fear of the unknown impede progress. It’s why I climbed into your experimental airplane for one of its first flights, and it’s why I investigate new opportunities in traditional fields. In this case, literal fields. You see, I really don’t give a shit if your background is in technology or in Tinkertoys. I care about one thing: Planning for the future of agriculture and farming. And making a healthy profit through that planning. Now, if you have a product geared more for tomorrow than for today, I’m interested in learning about it. And, as you already know, when my company gets serious they make healthy investments.”

  I punctuated the speech by finishing the pineapple.

  Diana looked from me to her boss, probably as curious as I was to see how he’d react to the one-two punch I’d delivered.

  I wasn’t sure he knew how to react. I’d cuffed him across the face and followed it up with a kiss on the cheek. Not the kind of formula one normally associated with wooing, but, if my hunch was correct, it was the right tactic for this particular chase. Use force against force, with a sprinkle of investment talk.

  Deele kept his expression neutral for the longest time, but finally another smile spread across his face. “I may have to get business cards printed that say Silicon Valley Farmer. I rather like the sound of that.”

  I held my ground. “So about that additional information . . .”

  He leaned forward. “I’ll tell you what. I’m giving a small presentation tomorrow to some representatives with a rather large co-op, and one or two other interested parties. Normally that would be closed to anyone else. But why don’t you join us and you can meet the person who knows more about the science of it all than I do. I assume your calendar is open?”

  “That’s why I’m in Texas, Jason.”

  “Very good,” he said, pushing back from the table. “I have to run. Diana will set you up with all the details regarding the presentation.”

  Standing with him, I shook his hand. “Thanks for the ride today. It was . . . memorable.”

  “I hope we can do it again sometime,” he said. “Maybe even let you handle the controls for a bit?”

  “I’ll bring my helmet,” I said.

  He gave a sarcastic thumbs up and began to walk away. Then, pausing, he looked back.

  “By the way,” he said. “What are Tinkertoys?”

  14

  I felt pretty puffed up on the long drive back into town. I’d made contact with our shady billionaire and finagled an invitation to one of his closed presentations. Not to mention surviving a white-knuckle ride in his dodgy airplane without soiling myself.

  Of course, all of that was worthless if it didn’t produce credible information tying Jason Deele to a nefarious scheme involving the country’s farmland. The idea of the presentation intrigued me, especially with his quick reference to a person who knew more about the science of it all. The nerd in me looked forward to it.

  My job required I make snap judgments on people, and in one hour I’d done that with two of the players. Deele was easy; he tried to camouflage his cutthroat demeanor with an easy laugh and somewhat-gregarious manner around staff and strangers, but I’ve encountered enough psychopaths to practically sniff them out.

  Or so I thought. That subject was at the root of a fascinating session I’d once had with Q2’s psychiatrist, Miller. He’d asked me to describe a villain I’d recently dispatched, a particularly nasty character one might describe using Quanta’s term for the worst of the worst: a knave. In fact, I did; but Miller had wanted more.

  “The guy was a psychopath,” I’d said. “Or am I using the wrong term? Maybe a sociopath?” I shrugged. “It’s been a few years since I took Introduction to Psychology. Refresh me on the differences.”

  “Sociopath and psychopath are just pop culture labels,” Miller said. “You won’t find them in many of the mental health textbooks; the psychiatry profession prefers the term antisocial personality disorder. Sort of an umbrella diagnosis, maybe, but an apt description.”

  “But come on, you know I love pop culture,” I said. “Humor me.”

  Miller set down the tablet he’d been using for notes. “Okay. Well, the two have similarities and differences. Both are rooted in antisocial tendencies. But it’s often believed that psychopathic behavior is something you’re born with, while sociopathic tendencies are more likely induced by your environment.”

  “A psychopath is born and a sociopath is made,” I said.

  He nodded. “Also, a psychopath is more of a planner, the sociopath more impulsive. Of course, neither takes into account the harm they’re causing others. They’re generally incapable of feeling guilt, although some experts will tell you sociopaths have a tiny sliver of conscience. Just not enough to stop their actions. Perhaps they’ll feel bad about it later, but they’ll get over it.”

  “No conscience. That explains a lot,” I said.

  “Bear in mind that a psychopath is capable of pretending to have a conscience, but it’s usually a smokescreen to hide his motives. They’ll even pretend to fall in love and form strong emotional attachments, but that’s an act, too. A tool to get something else they want.”

  I absorbed this for a moment, mentally tagging the various villains I’d dealt with in my Q2 adventures.

  Miller kept going. “What makes it difficult to peg a true psychopath is the fact that they’re often quite charming. I’m sure you’ve encountered more than one like that on your assignments. But, again, it’s just another tool. They’re master manipulators, right? And the charming personality just makes their job easier.”

  “I’m assuming one is more dangerous than the other,” I said.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, they’ll both kill you. In your case they probably have. The difference is one of them might feel slightly bad about it. For a few minutes. So if you’re forcing me to pick one that would be more dangerous, I’d go with the psychopath. Only because they’re able to dissociate from their actions.”

  Miller wrapped up the discussion by assuring me not all psychopaths or sociopaths were dangerous.

  But we both silently understood that this particular disclaimer had little relevance with my job. I only dealt with the dangerous ones.

  Specifically, the deadly ones.

  Now, behind the wheel of my Jag, I thought about the easy smile Jason Deele had dispensed at the airfield. The annoying tendency to clap me on the shoulder and flash his teeth, the manufactured laughter.

  Was it all an evil facade? Did a psychopath lurk behind the smile? Had Deele ordered the murder of a federal agent without hesitation and with no trace of remorse? And was there
something truly sinister at the heart of his newfound fascination with the business of food? Sarah Eklund was convinced his plan could ultimately be catastrophic for one of the country’s most important cash crops. And, assuming his scheme eventually encompassed more than just soybeans, it wasn’t out of the question, the scientist said, for dominoes to tip over until starvation became a real possibility.

  While Jason Deele smiled and contemplated his next move.

  Miller had been spot on: Over the years I’d come up against my share of charming killers. Only weeks earlier I’d personally battled a man who displayed all the classic traits of a psychopath. He’d spent years meticulously planning his crime. He was a complete loner, with no messy attachments; in fact, even his closest ally was on his scheduled hit list. On top of it all, he’d been the most intelligent and the most charming knave I’d ever faced.

  What disturbed me was the chilling realization that he’d also been the person—other than my wife—with whom I felt the closest connection. It was this fraternal bond that scared the living hell out of me. What does it say when the person you’re most simpatico with has a murderous, vindictive streak dominating their personality?

  Much of my six-week convalescence was spent rolling around that darkness. Not a place you wanna spend too much time. I never came to any rock-solid conclusions about it, other than the fact that—so far—I’d used my powers for the greater good. That would have to pacify me until I fully deconstructed everything.

  Assuming that was possible.

  Normally I’d upload just before bed, backing up all my head’s data at the natural conclusion of a day. But the meeting with Deele, including the flight and the lunch chatter, was too important to lose in case a bus jumped a curb and flattened me on my walk to dinner. I owed it to Future Swan to archive it all, and finished by six o’clock.

  After packing away the upload gear I checked my phone, surprised to see a text message from Dr. Eklund. It read: Call me when you get a moment.

  I did.

  “What are you doing for dinner?” she asked.

  “I’m in Texas, so I suppose I should either do a steak or something chicken-fried. Although I have no idea how one chicken-fries anything. Why do you ask? Are you worried about my cholesterol?”

  “Not particularly,” she said. “I thought I might buy you dinner and we could talk some more about the case.”

  I sat motionless, staring at the wallpaper as the words sank in.

  “You’re in Houston?”

  “I’m in Houston. In fact, I’m in the lobby of your hotel. Are you here, or out somewhere?”

  I sighed. “I’m at the hotel. I just don’t understand why you are.”

  “A last-minute thing. I can explain. So, are you joining me or not?”

  “I guess I am. Give me twenty minutes. I’ve got some calls to make.”

  Poole was having her own dinner at her desk, which is where I think she took the majority of her meals. On one hand I felt guilty that she worked an unseemly number of hours and subsisted on Tupperware-packaged leftovers while I was heading out for a hot meal of something smothered in jalapeño gravy. On the other hand, her manner led me to believe she wouldn’t have it any other way.

  She was excited to hear about the presentation I’d be attending the next day. Well, excited might be overstating it; I’d never really heard Poole excited in the way most people associate with the word. Let’s say she was optimistic that the presentation would provide helpful intel for the assignment.

  When I asked if there was any news from the boss, the answer was no. Quanta, she said, had been called to a meeting in London and wouldn’t return for three days. This piqued my curiosity.

  “Gimme the dirt,” I said.

  “What dirt?”

  “The meeting in London. She’s not quitting and going back to a job in Europe, is she?”

  “She hasn’t mentioned anything like that,” Poole said.

  I grunted. “She wouldn’t. I thought you might have a feeling.”

  There was a pause while Quanta’s assistant thought about it. In the silence something else occurred to me.

  “Does this trip have anything to do with Parnell?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what the meeting’s about.”

  “Yeah, all right, never mind. Listen, I downloaded already, and in a few minutes I’ll be meeting with Sarah Eklund. She’s in town for some reason. I’ll check in with you tomorrow before the meeting with Deele.”

  We hung up. Before my next call I sat quietly, thinking about Quanta and her sudden mysterious trip to the UK. Perhaps it was just coincidence that our latest addition to the Q2 roster of agents included the former British intelligence officer.

  Parnell had worked with me on my last assignment. It didn’t end well for her. She’d been killed right in front of me, which meant she’d now experienced the agency’s investment program for the first time. While agents in our department are discouraged from communicating with each other, I couldn’t help but be curious how she was handling everything. I was, after all, responsible not only for bringing her into the fold, but also for the bullet which had ended her previous life.

  Maybe things were working out so splendidly with her that Quanta had taken a recruiting trip across the pond. She could be hunting down more European players to replace the agents Q2 had lost.

  I shook my head. It wasn’t worth worrying over at the moment.

  The next call was to Fife. He expressed a bit more enthusiasm than Poole regarding the next day’s meeting.

  “How the hell did you con your way into that?” he asked.

  “No conning necessary. Well, unless you count my fake identity and bullshit agenda. Otherwise you can chalk it up to my innate charm and captivating wit. Oh, and, as it turns out, my iron stomach.”

  “I have no idea what that means. But color me impressed,” he said.

  “I’d invite you to join, but they specifically said no Elvis impersonators, art history majors, or FBI agents allowed.”

  “Damn, I’m screwed on two counts.”

  “I’m not surprised. How’s your cute little assignment going in Dallas?”

  “Cute little assignment? You mean the one with major national security ramifications? It’s going well. But never mind that; tell me about Jason Deele. Wish I’d been there when you met him. Was it like meeting a rock star?”

  I chuckled. “You’re not too far off. He definitely parades around with the air of a celebrity, has the usual sycophants orbiting him, and a two-man muscle detail. The guy loves being rich.”

  “What about Eklund’s read on him? Did you get any kind of feeling that she may be right?”

  “Maybe. But it’s funny you mentioned the plant professor. She’s down in the hotel lobby right now.”

  “Swan, you sly dog. I didn’t figure you for the type.”

  “Oh, hush.”

  “All right, so what’s she doing there?”

  I scratched the stubble on my chin. “There’s no way this is a coincidence, like visiting family or anything. She’s obviously here because of Deele.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t think much of your detective work and she’s come to make a citizen’s arrest.”

  “I wouldn’t stop her. I’d love to see that some time.”

  “You already have,” Fife said. “Remember your excitement at the farmers market? You and those college dudes who sat on the perps until the cops arrived? That’s a form of citizen’s arrest.”

  “This is why I hang out with FBI dweebs,” I said. “You’re so damned knowledgeable. In case I need a little smarty-pants backup, are you almost finished in Dallas?”

  “Getting there. But if I don’t make it before all hell breaks loose on your end, I’ll be sure to visit you in the hospital. Again.”

  “Wow, smart and funny. Anything else to report before I go meet the doctor?”

  “I heard through the grapevine you pissed off Eklund’s step-mother, the deputy secretary.”


  “How did you hear this?” I asked.

  “She thinks you’re connected with the FBI, so she made a strongly-worded complaint. Something about a lack of respect. That’s when I knew she’d talked with you.”

  I laughed. “Normally it’s Quanta who tells me to play nice.”

  “Oh, I’m not telling you to play nice. Where’s the fun in that?”

  15

  In the elevator on my way down to the lobby I remembered something Fife had said to me on my first night in Iowa. When I’d asked him to describe Dr. Sarah Eklund, he’d used three words:

  Dynamic as hell.

  There were two kinds of people you could pin that description on. One was the sharp, detail-oriented self-starter, the person who’d lead a charge up the hill and you’d follow because you were caught up in the wake of their strength of will. They were born leaders, people you admired. There have been presidents, prime ministers, civil rights leaders, and entrepreneurs who embodied this spirit, oozing confidence in themselves while inspiring others to achieve results they’d never imagined.

  The other was just the common, everyday pain in the ass.

  I’d been around both types of dynamic personalities. You never forgot either one, for drastically different reasons.

  I hoped to God that Sarah Eklund was version number one. Something told me I’d know before the night was over.

  She stood near the front door, relaxed. Most people would be engrossed in something on their phone; Eklund seemed comfortable without a distraction.

  “This is quite a surprise,” I said.

  “Sorry to spring the visit on you,” she said. “But I felt like our first few talks didn’t go so well.”

  “You came a long way just to start over.”

  She gave an easy smile. “Would you believe I was in the neighborhood?”

  “I can’t wait to find out why. Where are we going?”

  She nodded toward the door. “There’s a great cafe nearby. I can’t promise they’ll chicken-fry anything for you, but the reviews are good. Come on, my treat.”