Field Agent Page 13

  “Hello, Ryan,” Rob said after reading my badge. “How are things at DMC?”

  Poole and the team at Q2 had made the right call in going with D.M. Cash; it was well known, which would get you in the door, and populated by enough people for my Ryan Thomas character to be anonymous.

  “Business is growing,” I said with a wink. I hoped he got the joke.

  He gave a serious nod and took a bit of pineapple. “Well, good to know.”

  He didn’t get it.

  I think the woman must’ve, however. She gave a sly smile. Her name badge read Kate Hall. Probably hated attending meetings and having to cover for the company hotshot who was dense as a board.

  “Kate,” I said, “have you met Jason Deele before?”

  She shook her head. “No, I haven’t. You?”

  “He tried to kill me yesterday,” I said, and took a sip of cranberry juice.

  Before either could respond, Diana Capaldi walked in, talking with a man. I recognized him from the Iowa hotel security footage.

  Conor Wood. The most likely suspect in the shooting of Agent Culbertson. I sized him up as best I could without appearing too interested. He still had the body of an athlete, perhaps a little bulkier in the shoulders. His suit was well-tailored and expensive, his skin tanned, but his hair looked like it got the most attention. I pictured his house having lots of mirrors.

  The conversation didn’t last long, and Wood stalked back out, looking angry. Or maybe that was his everyday look.

  Diana came over, putting on her professional face. “Ms. Hall. Mr. Byzkinski. Mr. Ryan. Thank you so much for being here today.”

  “Thanks for having us,” said Byzinski. “Looking forward to it.”

  God, he was a bore.

  A couple more attendees entered the room, and right behind them a tall woman with long, brown hair, carrying a leather bag over her shoulder. Diana got her attention and she joined our small group.

  “Let me introduce one of our speakers today,” Diana said. “This is Dr. Jaclyn Stone.”

  This would be the scientist Deele had described as the brainchild behind his new process.

  Like Capaldi, Stone could apply the artificial business smile, but on her it was less believable. The handshake was firm but cold, and through her fashionable glasses I noticed dark eyes appraising me, like an adversary. That was odd, and I catalogued it. First impressions were important in my work, and this initial read signaled that Jaclyn Stone was an academic who would probably kick your ass if given the right provocation. I found the combination fascinating and, if I wasn’t happily married, attractive as hell.

  Byzinski rolled out another looking forward to it. Kate Hall merely nodded. It was up to me to say something witty.

  “I haven’t heard about magic beans since my mother read Jack and The Beanstalk. I’m guessing your story has an equally unhappy ending for the giant.”

  It was clear she didn’t appreciate the snarky comment, and her phony smile faltered a bit. Then, recovering, she said, “Somebody once claimed that truly advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”

  I nodded. “Arthur C. Clarke, the writer. I also liked what Leigh Brackett said: To the ignorant, science is like witchcraft. Or something like that.” I raised my glass of cranberry juice in a mock toast. “I assume your presentation today does not include a bubbling cauldron.”

  The other three people in our circle were quiet, not sure what to make of this exchange. But Jaclyn Stone finally unleashed a real smile, albeit a small one. She still didn’t like me, for whatever reason, but probably appreciated the verbal jousting. It beat the hell out of anything that would spill out of Byzinski’s mouth all day.

  “Mr. Deele will be here any minute,” Diana said, attempting to re-establish control of the situation. “If you’d like to top up your refreshments, we should probably take our seats.”

  Stone gave me one more sharp glance, then shifted the bag across her shoulder and walked to a lectern at the front of the room. Thoroughly satisfied with myself, I set down my glass, nodded at Kate and Rob, and wandered over to the lonely bartender. Ryan Thomas, I’d decided, was the guy who’d buck convention and take advantage of free booze.

  I ordered a whiskey-diet, tipped the grateful bartender five bucks, and headed over to the chairs.

  They’d filled up. I found an empty seat behind and to the side of Sarah Eklund so I could see the speakers and her reaction.

  Diana began the presentation, adjusting the microphone and welcoming everyone. While she went through this perfunctory greeting I scanned the seats, wondering what it took to receive a golden ticket. I figured every organization represented around me likely had a business war chest fat enough to write Jason Deele an eight- or nine-figure check. Thus the cushy chairs and fancy metal name tags.

  But where was the elusive billionaire? Out paragliding somewhere? Bungee jumping? Scaling the side of the Chase Tower a few blocks away?

  Diana finished her comments and the lights actually dimmed, like a concert getting underway. Fife’s reference to Deele as a rock star began to seem apropos. Contemporary electronic music from a high-end sound system pulsed, at first very low, gradually increasing in volume and tempo. Two large screens deployed from above, one on each side of the lectern. And then the show really began.

  A true multimedia presentation lit up the room. Visuals, including a combination of agricultural images mixed with laboratory shots, splashed back and forth on the two screens. Scenes of lush, golden fields, swaying in the breeze. Pictures of scientists, complete with the requisite microscopes and test tubes. Farmers and their families, all smiling, of course. It was all synced to the music, and must’ve cost a fortune to produce.

  I began to see why Deele had voiced his reluctance to do an individualized sales job in that airplane hangar. Nothing could’ve compared to the stunning display going on before a room full of captivated buyers. The production lasted nearly two minutes, with no narration, for good reason: It wasn’t needed. The producers had done a marvelous job of telling their story, explaining with images alone exactly what we’d soon hear about.

  Two images remained frozen on the huge screens. On the left, a majestic crop of tall, vibrant plants basking in bright sunshine, while in the background a happy, smiling farmer, sitting up high in a gleaming combine that must’ve cost half-a-million dollars. The implied message was pretty clear: We deal in success.

  The image on the right was pure tech. A scientist, exhibiting her own smile, looked intently at a glass beaker she held aloft.

  Successful crop management aided by the highest degree of scientific study. That was the message. Now it was up to Jason Deele to sell it.

  And just like that, out of the darkness between the two screens, he appeared. Now he was the rock star, emerging from back stage after the band warmed up the audience with an instrumental jam. In fact, there was even a smattering of applause, undoubtedly started by Deele’s employees, and the assembled crowd felt obligated to politely join in. He walked to the lectern, smiling, even offering a quick wave to someone he knew in the crowd. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the silliness of it all.

  Then the Q2 agent in me snapped back to reality. This glitzy, high-tech display merely cloaked a potentially wicked criminal enterprise, one that had already taken lives and was poised to chalk up many more. I couldn’t be sure Jason Deele was psychotic, but I wouldn’t have bet against it, either. This might look like an innocent, run-of-the-mill sales presentation, but underneath loomed a plot threatening to devastate the agricultural foundation of countries worldwide, and conceivably lead to the starvation of millions.

  I set my half-finished whiskey on the floor beneath my chair.

  Deele didn’t bother with a cheesy introduction or welcome. He got right down to business.

  “I’ve been involved with several startup companies. In my business life I’ve succeeded far beyond anything I ever dreamed, but I’ve also crashed and burned. Some of those failures made a
few headlines, didn’t they? And always with the most unflattering photos they could possibly attach to them.”

  This brought a small ripple of laughter in the room.

  “What all of it taught me was this: I won’t hire anyone on my team who hasn’t had both victory and defeat. People who claim they’ve never failed in life are either lying or of no practical use to me. In fact, I’d rather work with someone who has clawed their way up from the ashes than someone who’s lived a charmed life.

  “I want people who’ve had their ass kicked. People who’ve been insulted and ignored. But also people who’ve had enough of a taste of victory that they can contrast and compare the two. Who know what it’s like on the top and on the bottom. Those are the fighters. Those are the ones who work harder, work longer, and produce the most dazzling results.”

  It was an interesting speech. I couldn’t disagree with him, but I wondered where this was leading.

  “I was fortunate to meet a woman four years ago who embodies this particular spirit. In a minute you’re going to hear from Dr. Jaclyn Stone. She’s brilliant, and I’ve known more than a few brilliant minds after many years in Silicon Valley. She’s determined, and I cherish that as much as any other quality in a person.”

  Here he paused, looked down for a moment, then slowly returned his gaze to the crowd.

  “But what makes Dr. Stone so valuable, not just to me personally but to the technology world, is the drive. The passion. It’s a passion fueled by exactly what I described to you.

  “We like to think science is a quiet, gentle pursuit. Men and women in pristine lab coats, toiling for years on experiments, supporting one another. Encouraging their peers. Celebrating their successes.

  “But that’s not always the case. There are times when the scientific community aligns itself against you and your work. Not just to criticize you, but to discredit you.”

  Another pause. The room was dead silent.

  And in the midst of this silence an odd feeling washed over me. Something I couldn’t put my finger on. Something familiar. But it wasn’t a pleasant familiarity. What was it? For the moment, at least, it wasn’t setting off massive alarm bells, but rather producing a mild sensation of dread. Something buried within Jason Deele’s speech tickled a memory. A memory of an earlier case.

  Since my cases always involved vile people and nasty outcomes, it couldn’t be good.

  Now Deele smiled, lifting the audience out of the gloom he’d intentionally created.

  “Why would I tell you all this? Because Jaclyn Stone has enjoyed the sweet taste of victory, and she’s battled against the petty jealousies and vindictive motives of former colleagues. But at no time did she wilt, or lose her focus. She fought back. And, with her presentation today, you’ll see that she has triumphed. Because of her work, your lives will be remarkably changed for the better.”

  He held out a hand toward the side of the room. “Please welcome Dr. Jaclyn Stone.”

  There was another polite round of applause, the room’s occupants sizing up the elegant woman who now approached the microphone. Deele welcomed her with a somewhat awkward hug, then moved to the side of the room to stand beside Diana Capaldi.

  I threw a glance at Sarah Eklund. She was not applauding, choosing instead to sit still with her arms crossed.

  When I looked back at Dr. Stone I blinked.

  It hit me. I remembered.

  And my dread now sent an ice-cold shudder through me.

  17

  Growing up I had a next-door neighbor who was bat-shit crazy. His name was Raymond Poke, and for the 18 months we lived in that house I was terrified he’d grab me and toss me into some sort of dungeon he’d dug beneath his basement. The first time I saw Silence of The Lambs I actually trembled at the scene where the senator’s daughter is down in that hole. It was exactly the kind of thing I expected of Crazy Raymond.

  My fear was based on a total of two encounters I’d had with him. Once, when my Frisbee accidentally sailed over the fence into his yard—because Frisbees have a mind of their own and will always adopt a flight path you didn’t think was possible. I’d scaled the fence to retrieve it, unaware of the old guy sitting in the shade of his back patio. He barked something at me in the angriest voice I’d ever heard, and I scrambled back over the fence so fast I spent days pulling splinters out of my hands and knees.

  The second time I was tearing up and down the sidewalk on my bike, seeing how long of a black skid mark I could lay by slamming on my brakes. It’s one of those things kids do.

  Of course, I’d made the mistake of leaving one of these skid marks on the sidewalk in front of the nutty next-door neighbor’s house. He charged out his front door, waving a fist, telling me I better come back with a bucket of hot, soapy water and clean up his property.

  And I actually did. Probably one of the lowest moments of my life, outside on a beautiful, sunny day with a bucket and sponge, trying to clean burned rubber off cement. But I was afraid that if I left it I’d wake up in the middle of the night to find Raymond leaning over my bed with a rusty butcher knife at my throat.

  One day my dad asked me to return a hacksaw he’d borrowed from the guy, and I think my blood froze. How could my own father ask me to risk my life by returning a goddamned saw? Didn’t he know Crazy Raymond would probably use it to slice off my limbs?

  Of course, nobody else in my family feared our neighbor. Just me. My dad told me to quit dragging my ass, and pushed me out the door.

  We lived in one of those neighborhoods where the houses were practically on top of each other, but it still took me an eternity to make the walk. As I approached the dark porch—of course the porch light was off—I had a notion of tossing the saw up by the door and running back to safety as fast as I could. But my dad had said to ring the bell, hand it to the man, and tell him thank you.

  I was nine years old and convinced I’d never see ten.

  Practically in tears, I climbed the steps, paused for a full fifteen seconds, then tapped on the screen door. The heavy wooden door was open, and from inside I heard the old man holler to come in.

  Oh, shit. Go in? Alone?

  Well, at least my family knew where I’d gone, so they could send a hearse directly to the scene of the crime.

  I pulled the door open and walked toward the lamplight emanating from Raymond’s living room around the corner. He sat in a recliner facing a TV playing something incredibly loud, a dead cat sprawled on the ground beside him. He’d murdered a poor cat?

  Of course he hadn’t. When I walked in the cat woke up, stretched, and rolled onto its other side.

  I was quickly losing my nine-year-old mind.

  “Well, bring it over here,” Raymond said, holding out his hand.

  For a split second I thought about being proactive, and rushing the old man with the saw extended, slicing his head off before he had the chance to kill me.

  But I wasn’t a trained killer at that point. I was a trembling little pissant, scared to death of an old man in a La-Z-Boy. I held out the saw, handle toward him, and hoped I wouldn’t pee my pants.

  He looked at it, perhaps making sure I hadn’t somehow damaged it during the walk, then grunted and set it on the end table beside him. His eyes narrowed to slits as he examined me.

  “What’s your name?”

  My mouth was dry but I managed to tell him.

  “Eric,” he repeated, as if trying it on, seeing how it fit with the names of all the other bodies he’d buried out back. “Sit down, Eric.”

  What the hell was this? But I found the edge of the couch beside him and leaned my narrow ass on it.

  Raymond pointed his remote at the TV and muted the sound.

  “You ever watch anything besides cartoons?” he asked. “Ever watch anything to expand your mind?”

  I shook my head no, partly because I didn’t fully understand the question and partly because I didn’t want to have to rattle off names of shows I did watch.

  “This one here,”
he said, gesturing with the remote, “is about the moon landing. You know we supposedly landed on the moon, right? Tell me you at least know that.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “Do you believe it?”

  Again, I didn’t understand him. “Uh . . .”

  He waved the remote in disgust. “Don’t you believe it, young man. Nobody landed on the goddamned moon. This show proves it was fake.”

  I turned to look at the television. A very earnest man seemed to be pleading a case into the camera, with a still shot in the background of a full moon with a red line through it.

  “You quit watching those cartoons, which will only pollute your mind,” Raymond growled at me. “Start watching shows that’ll teach you something. I can tell you which ones to start with.”

  When I looked back at him, I saw someone entirely different than the monster I’d always seen before. As young as I was, still in elementary school, I was perceptive enough to recognize something about Raymond:

  He was a lonely old guy. He yelled at neighbor kids because he had no one to talk to. And if he could educate me somehow, it would bring him a bit of contentment. It might make him feel useful again. Someone to be listened to.

  For the next ten minutes he lectured me about the moon landing, how it was all a big con, and how the world had been fooled. He talked about other major events, too, how they were complete bullshit.

  Crazy Raymond, it turned out, was my first experience with a conspiracy theorist. He was practically a poster child—or poster old man—for the demo. Over the next few months, until we moved again, I’d occasionally wander over and bring him some of Mom’s baked goods, and he’d tell me how the CIA had murdered JFK, and how New Coke was a giant ploy by the soft drink giant to double their grocery store shelf space. As a kid I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded really important and he struck me as an authority.

  And, in all that time, he never once tried to murder me.

  Here’s why I dredged up that story. No, I don’t believe the moon landing was a hoax, I’m agnostic about the Kennedy assassination, and I’ve never even tasted New Coke.