Field Agent Read online

  One of the other guests spoke up. “How did you happen to choose to work with soybeans?”

  “It chose me. I did some preliminary work with a colleague and just happened to discover that some of the techniques worked best with that plant.”

  I remained silent, but compared this to the file Poole had sent to me. The colleague she casually referenced was a woman who later filed suit against Dr. Stone. It was eventually settled, with both sides agreeing to a non-disclosure agreement. Almost immediately, Stone lost her seat on the board of another biotech firm and a big chunk of grant money. Coincidence? I didn’t think so.

  I noticed none of that was included in the press releases Diana Capaldi had distributed.

  “Crops have been engineered for years to withstand pests and disease,” I said, swirling the wine in my glass. “What makes your formula any different?”

  She was ready for this one. “Biotech is almost always geared with the past in mind: Thinking about the problems we’ve always faced and how we can eliminate them. What we don’t do enough is anticipate the future. And with enough data accumulated, we can run simulations to tell us what problems we will be facing. That way we’re not working from behind, scrambling to solve a problem already devastating our food supplies. We’ll be prepared.”

  “Brilliant,” I said, and took a drink of the wine.

  “And,” said Deele, jumping in, “by saving time, we save lives and money.”

  Even while he spoke, Stone kept her gaze on me. From the very beginning she’d been sizing me up, as if searching for my motives or for a weakness. I couldn’t be sure which.

  The flirt, Abbott, spoke up, addressing Deele. “Your inventive strain of soybean is not just more expensive than anything on the market right now, it’s considerably more expensive. How are you justifying that?”

  Our host sat back, holding his own glass of wine. “Well, for one thing I would question the word considerably. True, it costs more. But weigh that against the price of ruined crops. What would it cost to suffer a year, or more, of barren fields? If you look at it that way, Mr. Abbott, our development actually saves your company considerably. Would you agree?”

  Abbott shrugged. I wasn’t an expert, but I was sure his chief objection matched what other skeptics said: You’re asking us to gamble. Gamble that some nasty fungus will wipe out our money crop, when a fungus of that type has never been seen.

  If Sarah Eklund was right, Jason Deele already had an answer for that objection.

  He’d created the killer fungus in advance.

  For years companies in almost every industry had learned that you create sales by creating the demand. Often it’s done with marketing and the use of well-placed influencers. When people are taught they can’t live without something, they’re sure a lot easier to sell.

  In this case, the one-two punch was more insidious than someone pimping the demand for a new video game app.

  What I really needed was a peek inside their lab, to see if Eklund’s fears were warranted. It didn’t look like an invitation was forthcoming. Well, there was no harm in asking.

  “What’s the chance I could stop by and see your work?” I asked. “I may not fully understand what I see, but I’d love to get a tour.”

  It was the brief, nervous glance Stone flashed toward her boss that excited me.

  Deele, for his part, was cool. He raised his eyebrows, feigning excitement.

  “That would be excellent, Ryan. Some people have no interest in how the kitchen works; they only want to see what comes out on the plate. I’m sure Dr. Stone would be more than happy to show you.”

  “Great. When could we make it happen?”

  “Well, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to be there, too. I’m ultimately responsible, you know. I may not have done the experiments, but it’s still my baby. Sadly, however, I’m leaving in the morning again for South America. May not be back for a week or two.”

  “You’re logging a lot of air miles these days,” I said. “Things must be going quite well down there.”

  “Don’t be surprised when Paraguay triples its exports within the next five years. And I’m not too modest to say our product will be one of the reasons.”

  “Then I definitely want to see the factory,” I said, saluting him with my glass. “I’m patient. Is it in the Houston area?”

  “Not far,” he said. The look he included was either one of gratitude that someone in the States was taking a serious interest in his product.

  Or one of sudden distrust.

  When the dessert plates had been picked up, it was obvious the social gathering was over. It was Deele’s habit, I noticed, to cut almost everything short of normal. There would be no after-dinner drinks in the parlor.

  I was the last guest to leave. Jason Deele shook my hand, then, for good measure, clapped me on the shoulder.

  “Thank you for joining us,” he said. “I look forward to giving you that tour. Stay in touch with Diana, will you, please?”

  “Of course. Thanks for a lovely evening.”

  I nodded thanks to Jaclyn Stone, but she surprised me for the second time.

  “I’ll walk Mr. Thomas to his car,” she said.

  The valet had it waiting, so it wasn’t much of a walk. But I was dying to know why the ice-cold scientist had thawed during the evening. The obvious warning bell in my head was that Deele was curious to find out something about me, and he’d instructed Dr. Stone to cozy up.

  I tipped the valet and accepted the fob from him. Turning to Stone, I said, “It’s a beautiful night. Let’s walk around the property for a minute before I have to leave.”

  We strolled toward the gate, which had been left open for the evening. It was her move, so I remained quiet.

  “I’m curious about something,” she finally said. “You came to the presentation today, and you were a charming guest at dinner.”

  “Why, thank you, Doctor.”

  “But you’re not really interested in my product, are you?”

  It was important I not react visibly. I hadn’t expected this.

  “Why would you say that?” I asked.

  “It’s my business, Mr. Thomas. I know when someone’s interested and when they’re bullshitting.”

  “Perhaps you’ve just had bad experiences with the wrong people. I can assure you there’s nobody more interested in your work than I am.”

  She stopped and took me by the arm.

  “I may have misspoken. I’m sure you’re interested; I’m just not sure how you’re interested.”

  I smiled. “You think I’m a spy for a rival company, is that it? You know my background, and you certainly know the track record of my company. D.M. Cash isn’t prepared to even begin the process of competing with your product. It would take years for us to develop anything close. By that time you’d have already cornered the market.”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t think you’re a spy, necessarily. But I saw you talking with Sarah Eklund at the end of the presentation today. And Dr. Eklund is the most outspoken of our critics. I just wanted to get you alone, away from Jason, and ask you to your face: Are you working with us, or against us?”

  I put on my best look of confusion. “I don’t know a Dr. Eklund. If you mean the woman who sat in front of me today, I simply wanted to know what she thought of your presentation. A tiny bit of market research. She was in no mood to discuss it, really. And now that you’ve told me she’s a critic, I understand.”

  Her eyes looked back and forth between mine, as if they were some biological polygraph test. “Okay. Well, your request to see the laboratory struck me as a bit clumsy, too. Just wanted a minute to talk with you, that’s all.”

  “I’m glad you did. You’ve been pretty insulated up until now. So insulated, in fact, that it’s prompted a few questions of my own.”

  “Questions about me? Like what, for instance?”

  “Like why someone of your training and capabilities would suddenly begin working with Jason
Deele, a man with no background in this field whatsoever. It can’t possibly be simply for the bankroll. Or could it?”

  She crossed her arms, the classic defensive posture. “That seems unusual to you? Really? Science has relied on patrons for thousands of years, just like the art world.”

  “But the patrons generally feel a connection with the work they support. Are you telling me Jason goes to bed at night dreaming of soybeans?”

  “I won’t deny he’s dreaming of making a fortune when this takes off. But is there anything wrong with profiting from something that also does the world good? Besides, isn’t that what you and your company are trying to do?”

  I put my hands in my pockets and looked up at the stars. Or tried to. The city glare allowed only a few to pass through. I made a quick decision to stop playing nice with Stone. Poking the bear could be dangerous, but sometimes it was necessary.

  “Look, Doctor,” I said, still gazing upward. “I’m in Houston with the express purpose of deciding whether or not to invest a shit-ton of money into an experimental new product. Now, it’s either a product that could revolutionize an entire industry—and do the world good, as you say—or it might be a complete train wreck.”

  I slowly lowered my face to hers. “For someone who’s supposedly eager to make a big splash, and to perhaps atone for a few career missteps in the past, you strike me as desperate when you partner with someone who shares none of your passion. Someone who truly believes in her research and her outcomes would wait for another benefactor, one who may not have the deepest pockets, but at least shares her enthusiasm for the work, not just the payday.”

  I watched her bristle at the mention of her past, and the anger simmered the more I spoke. This may have been an error in judgment on my part, but I couldn’t resist. Assholes bring out the asshole in me. Besides, knocking your opponent out of their comfortable space often paid dividends later.

  Before she could respond, I continued. “Look, I’ve been known to rub some people the wrong way. You may be one of them. If you’d prefer I communicate exclusively with Jason moving forward, that’s fine with me.”

  Now she appeared to measure her words before speaking. After a long intake of breath, she said, “No, I’ll be happy to answer any of your questions, Mr. Thomas. Thank you for setting me straight about Dr. Eklund and your keen interest. I’ll see you when Mr. Deele returns from his trip. Have a good night.”

  She turned and walked back toward the house. A moment later, my hands still thrust into my pockets, I strolled toward the Jag.

  Apparently Sarah Eklund—and Michael Corleone—weren’t the only people who believed in keeping a close eye on their enemies.

  Now I knew for certain who my next appointment would be.

  19

  “You’re going where?” Quanta asked. She was on a plane, returning from London. She offered no details about her trip, and, although curious, I didn’t ask.

  “Colorado,” I said. “On my way to the airport now.”

  “What does this have to do with the Deele case?”

  “Maybe nothing. But there’s someone in Colorado who may be able to answer questions I have concerning one of Deele’s associates.”

  “And you can’t just make a call?”

  “Oh, this guy doesn’t have a phone anymore. He has a cell, but not a cell phone.”

  She let out a long breath. “All right. Who is this knowledgeable person in a Colorado prison?”

  “Steffan Parks.”

  There was silence on her end for a long time. When she finally asked me what possible connection Parks could have with the assignment, I told her. It took a while. When I finished, she was silent again.

  Then: “You’ve done a thorough upload, I take it?”

  “Before I checked out of the hotel. If I get shanked at the prison everything’s been saved for posterity. Oh, and Agent Fife is flying from Dallas. He’s meeting me at the Denver airport and we’ll drive down together.”

  “All right. Keep Poole informed.” She broke the connection.

  I made a quick call to Christina, got her voicemail, and left a sufficiently sappy message. I missed her.

  My plane was delayed leaving Houston, so Fife beat me to the Mile High City by almost two hours. He immediately let me know how much I’d put him out.

  I pointed to the nearly-empty plate of nachos before him. “Not too put out, though.”

  Our rental car was a Mustang, and Fife took delight in zipping onto the toll road that eventually would get us to I-25 and the 100 mile jaunt south to the supermax prison facility near the town of Florence. Lots of really bad people spent their days and nights confined to the cells in this particular prison, specially built to house the worst of the worst.

  Some were international terrorists, some were domestic terrorists, most were deemed insidious threats to either the general public or to the staff of a traditional corrections facility. They were kept in their cells for up to 23 hours each day, and granted a single hour for exercise. The man I wanted to see fell under the domestic terror umbrella.

  “You pulled your FBI strings, right?” I asked Fife when we were southbound.

  “No. But I called someone who did. You’ll get your hour to talk with the prisoner. Now do you wanna let me know why this Steffan Parks guy is important to the case?”

  “Don’t play coy with me,” I said. “I’m sure you pulled his file before you got on the plane. You know who he is.”

  “I know you put him away for trying to poison an entire town in Arizona.”

  “Including a congresswoman’s family. You probably didn’t peek through all the backstory, though, did you?”

  “I skimmed enough to see there wasn’t any mention of agriculture. So what’s the connection?”

  Sitting in the passenger seat of the Mustang, I gazed at the mountains of the Front Range.

  “Steffan Parks was dangerous enough on his own. He had more than one axe to grind with society, and he held grudges. We’re talking major league grudges. But he didn’t work alone. He was part of a secret organization.”

  Fife grunted. “I like it. Sounds like one of those thriller novels.”

  “Scarier than that. In this case the organization is a group of scientists, each of whom feels slighted or punished unfairly. And some of them have gone beyond just bitching about it.”

  “Like Parks.”

  “Exactly.”

  “What are they called?” he asked.

  “They’re known as the Arcetri.” I spelled it for him. “Looks like Ar-set-tree, but it’s Ar-chet-tree.”

  “And where do you find them?”

  I shrugged. “That’s just it. It’s not as if they have a clubhouse somewhere, or scheduled meetings. From what I gathered they’re about as informal as you can get, mostly for their own protection.”

  We passed two large semi-trucks just before a construction zone forced us to slow down. Fife seemed to be digesting this latest intel.

  After a minute he said, “So you think Deele is being helped by this group of scientists? This Arcetri bunch?”

  “It was the way he introduced Jaclyn Stone. He made a point of talking about how she was disrespected by the corporate world and by many of her peers. I don’t know, but the way he said it reminded me of the way Parks and his cohorts talked about their own poor treatment. And since the Arcetri’s style is to exact revenge, to make people pay for their sins, it all tied together very neatly. Stone, if she really is connected in some way with this group, has been offered a platform for horrific revenge.”

  “And a very large bankroll to fund it, courtesy of Jason Deele,” Fife said.

  I nodded. “Those two could have the same goal in mind, but for very different reasons. Probably do, in fact.”

  Another four miles passed in tight highway traffic, the corridor between Denver and Colorado Springs its usual congested mess. The cone zone didn’t help. When things loosened up again, Fife said, “If all of this is true—I mean about the Ar
cetri—then this is a bigger issue than just Sarah Eklund’s crop problem. If you don’t even know how many people are in the group . . .” He left the sentence unfinished.

  But it was something I’d contemplated from the moment I’d heard about the enigmatic organization. Who knew how many members waited for their own chance to strike back against their perceived injustice? How many more were being recruited each year?

  I counted on Steffan Parks to enlighten me.

  And he had no reason whatsoever to play ball.

  Storm clouds draped low as we pulled into the prison parking lot. The day had a flat, gray look about it. This part of the state already appeared nothing like the picturesque image one normally associated with colorful Colorado. It was brown and bleak. When an inmate managed a glimpse outside it was nothing to swoon over. Even the nearby mountains failed to lend beauty to the scene; they more or less played the role of simply another wall.

  I let Fife do the talking as we checked in. The entire process took quite a while. There are maximum security prisons, and then there’s supermax. You’re not waltzing inside quickly.

  Eventually we wound up in a drab room that held a table and four chairs. We waited another fifteen minutes. When the lock clanged in the door again, I looked up to see the grizzled face of Steffan Parks.

  Bound in heavy restraints, he shuffled into the room in front of a beefy guard. A second officer stood right outside the door. While Parks was seated at one of the chairs and his chain attached to a hook on the table, I studied his face. The long hair and the goatee he’d sported during his arrest were gone. His head was now buzz-cut and his face smooth. He remained impassive, doubtless at a complete loss as to why he’d been removed from his cell. But I’m sure he didn’t care, either; at least it provided a break in the monotony.

  The guard took up his post near the door. Fife gestured at me as if to say, He’s all yours.

  I was the guy who’d captured Parks, and yet he wouldn’t recognize me. I’d occupied a different body at the time. To him I was just another no-name fed sent to make his life uncomfortable.