Field Agent Page 8

  “Got your cover?” he asked.

  “I’ll memorize it on the plane. They gave me two first names again. They know I hate that.”

  “Quit your whining. Try going through life with Fife.”

  “Life with Fife,” I said. “Sounds like either reality TV or a PBS show for kids. Assuming I get the appointment with Deele, are you going to join me in Houston?”

  “Can’t get away for at least three more days. That’s one reason I’m calling.”

  “So you drag me out of my pajama pants in Washington, fly me out to help with a job in corn country, and then abandon it? Why do I feel like I’ve been set up?”

  “Man, all those years of uploads and downloads have turned you into a first-class crybaby,” he said.

  “Yeah, yeah. You said that’s one reason you called. What’s the other?”

  “You’ll probably be hearing from Sarah Eklund. Seems Mr. Deele reached out to her from South America.”

  “Yeah? What did he have to say?”

  “Said he’d heard a rumor that some soybean fields took a hit in Iowa. Wanted to remind her that he could set up another meeting anytime. After he finishes his business down south.”

  “He’s a ballsy bastard, I’ll give him that.”

  “And a richer bastard than he was a few days ago. Just closed a deal to sell his super-soybeans in Argentina.”

  “Oh? Did he murder some of their crops down there, too?”

  “As a matter of fact . . .”

  10

  The call from Dr. Eklund didn’t come until I was driving to the airport the next morning. I’m sure I sounded distracted.

  “Is this a bad time?” she asked.

  “No. I just dropped a hash brown nugget between the seats.”

  “Oh,” she said, and then fell silent, apparently unsure how to follow up dreadful news. So I explained the tragedy to her.

  “It was the last one in the bag. You know, there’s something about dropping that last french fry or hash brown nugget that can wreck your whole day.” Then, when there was still silence on the other end, I added, “Well, maybe you don’t know.”

  “I can call you back if you need to pull over and effect a rescue.”

  “No, it’s all good. There actually was one more in the bottom of the bag. So, I heard Mr. Deele called you from the Southern Hemisphere.”

  “The man has a lot of nerve, Mr. Swan.” I noticed that with her irritation I was no longer Eric. “When he lands in this country please tell me your people will arrest him.”

  “I can’t tell you that. We’ve been over this already. We don’t have anything that would allow us to hold him.”

  “He’s killing crops all over the world now.”

  “Well, let’s talk about that,” I said, wadding up a napkin and throwing it onto the passenger seat. “There’s something I should’ve asked in our last meeting, but I’m just now learning enough to know what to ask. This crop here in Iowa that was infested. You said the mold was one of a kind and had never been seen before.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But I got another report last night from Washington that says although it’s technically new, it’s a close relative to another fungus that’s been around for years. In other words, it’s a mutation.”

  She hesitated before answering. “It’s a mutation that didn’t exist until he showed up.”

  “But it’s not entirely new. It’s like a virus mutating over time. Correct?”

  “Jesus,” she said. “Are you defending him?”

  “Not at all. My gut instinct is that he’s guilty of a variety of things. But we’re not allowed to show up and say I arrest you in the name of my gut. We have to be able to prove criminal activity. And, unfortunately, all Jason Deele has to do is claim this fungus mutated on its own and he was simply ahead of the game by preparing for that eventuality. Right place, right time.”

  “It’s bullshit,” she said.

  “You’re probably right.” I softened my tone. “Listen, Doctor, I’ll let you in on something. An investigation like this is like a large, ocean-bound freighter. It doesn’t move real fast, and it takes a long time to make turns. But it usually gets to where it needs to go. So don’t think we’re letting him get away with anything. We just have to put everything together properly.”

  She sighed. “Yeah, I get it.”

  “And,” I added, “this case has all sorts of complications, not the least of which is a dead federal agent on the side of a road. Trust me, we want justice in this case just as much as you do. Now, tell me what you’ve heard about South America.”

  She spent a couple of minutes letting me know a fungus similar to the one that had poisoned the soybean field in Iowa took out several square miles of plants in the Pampas region of Argentina. And since that country is one of the world’s largest exporters of biofuels made from soy, Deele managed to secure huge contracts.

  “They weren’t going to take any chances,” she said. “Which he counted on.”

  I nodded, and turned toward the rental car lot at the airport.

  “Okay,” I said. “If things fall right, I’ll sit down with Jason Deele in a day or two. And listen: No one is forgetting about you or the farmers in Iowa. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “I will hold you to that, Mr. Swan.”

  This came from a voice I didn’t recognize. Someone else was on the line, by the sound of it an older woman.

  “All right,” I said. “And who is this on the party line?”

  “This is Deputy Secretary Halloran. I’m the one who started this investigation.”

  “I see. And you’ve been secretly listening in for what reason? To make sure I’m not slacking on the job?”

  “Agent Swan,” Sarah Eklund cut in. “It’s not like that. I—”

  “Sarah didn’t ask for this conference call, Mr. Swan,” said Halloran. “I did. And yes, I wanted to remain silent at first to hear what you had to say without you coloring it because a politician was on the line.”

  “Did you catch that tale of woe regarding the lost hash brown? That’s not part of the case, of course, but very important nonetheless. A good agent needs energy to get through the assignment, and a processed potato plug is packed with just the right amount of grease to last me through a late lunch.”

  Halloran sighed. “All right. You’re angry. I don’t care about that. What I care about is you taking this case seriously. I’m not convinced you are.”

  “Oh, but I am,” I said with a placating tone. “I intend to do such a good job that you’re sure to get bumped up from Deputy Secretary to Sheriff Secretary. You can count on me.”

  “I might need to make a phone call to someone about you, Mr. Swan. I don’t like your attitude.”

  “No? Well, let me tell you what I don’t like, Deputy Halloran. I don’t like people secretly checking up on me. I don’t like snoops on my phone calls. And I sure as hell don’t like politicians threatening me. Now before you go and make a stink with your phone call you should know that I have a few friends myself inside the Beltway, and I’m willing to bet they’re a lot more powerful than yours. The stink you make will be Chanel No. 5 compared to the retch-inducing funk I stir up.”

  “Yes, you’re very tough,” she said. “Just make sure you’re giving this assignment 110 percent.”

  “Did you really just say 110 percent? Here’s a news flash for you, Deputy Secretary: A gallon jug with a gallon of water in it is doing the best it can. Understand what I’m saying?”

  There was silence on the line. I could only imagine how horrified Sarah Eklund was at the moment.

  “I started this investigation,” Halloran finally said. “And I will check up on it as I see fit. If there’s nothing else, I have a meeting to attend.”

  “Give my best to the sheriff,” I said. That was answered with a click.

  I waited a couple of seconds before I started to chuckle. “That was fun,” I said.

  “That was fun?”
Eklund said with a sputter.

  “Oh, God yes. You didn’t like the show?”

  “I wanted to throw up. Nobody has ever spoken to Janet that way. At least not that I’ve ever heard. You’re insane.”

  I pulled up to the return lane at the rental car center. “People in power only respect other people in power. If you let them step on you at the beginning they’ll never treat you with respect. You already know that in your line of work; you just think it’s different when someone has an office in Washington.”

  There was another pause, then I could hear the tension in her voice let up. “Yeah. Okay.” Then it was her turn to laugh. “Did you make up that gallon jug line yourself?”

  “Stole it from a college professor. You’re free to use it anytime.”

  “Not likely.”

  I shut off the engine. “I’ll send you the hotel information in Houston in case you need to reach me in an emergency.”

  The first leg of the flight found me sitting next to a man who talked on his phone right up until we were rolling down the runway for takeoff. People 15 rows away could’ve heard him. You know the guy. In my head I had two dozen things I wanted to say to him. Instead I put on headphones and dominated the arm rest.

  After that I closed my eyes and sifted through everything I’d learned in the past 48 hours. The idea that Jason Deele employed his own hitman fascinated me. Contract killing has been around for untold ages, and some reports say it’s behind anywhere from two to five percent of all murders. In a way, I’m a contract killer; I just happen to be paid by Uncle Sam.

  But generally we imagine it taking place in some seedy underworld, populated by shadowy mobsters carrying out their little gangland vendettas. Even with $3,500 suits, Vincent Volta couldn’t disguise the fact he played in that sandbox. Sad to say, it’s almost what we expect.

  What we don’t expect is a multi-billionaire in Silicon Valley pulling strings to murder people. Which, when you think about it, is probably naive on our part. Those could very well be some of the biggest players in the contract-killing industry and we just don’t see it behind the walls of their estates. Money buys protection, influence, and really good attorneys. And when you’re talking about that much cheddar, who knows how it warps the mind? At some point it becomes the ultimate scorecard, and some people need to win every game.

  The difference between Volta and Deele was experience. Volta grew up in the world of blood-letting; Deele, as part of the vulgar nouveau riche, had probably seen it only in movies. Which made him, in my opinion, more dangerous. Sneer if you must, but at least Volta’s type had a code, flimsy as it may be to a civilized mind. Deele and his crew practically flailed in comparison. Killing a USDA agent proved it.

  And, I was sure, it would be his undoing.

  By the time I changed planes—and rid myself of the gabber who’d jumped back on his phone the moment the wheels touched down in Dallas—I realized my vacation truly was over. Six weeks on the sidelines may have produced some rust, but now the challenge was on and my motor was revving.

  The short hop to Houston passed in no time. A message from Poole awaited, telling me the meeting with Deele was proving tough to arrange. His own gatekeepers were adept at putting off even big-money types from an organization like D.M. Cash. Another advantage when you already had billions in the bank. Poole said she’d keep working on it. Many people delighted in the power of being wooed a few times before saying yes.

  That was just as true in business as it was in love.

  This time my rental was a sporty Jaguar, a much better calling card in my role as executive Ryan Thomas. Not that tooling up in a mid-size SUV would’ve been horrible, but we operated under the assumption that looking the part was half the battle. To that end, I stopped on the way to my hotel and picked up an impressively modern business suit and shoes from a high-end shop. With an equally-impressive tip on the side I ensured the slight alterations would be finished by the following morning and the entire package delivered.

  The hotel valet parked the Jag while I checked in and helped myself to a quick drink at the restaurant bar. That gave me a chance to call Christina.

  “Houston?” she said. “Tired of the corn fields already?”

  “Actually, those were enchanting. The bad guys just won’t stay put. How’s your belly? Everything still simmering the way it should?”

  “As far as I can tell. I don’t go back to the doctor for another two weeks. Marissa’s coming with me.”

  “Good.” Then, after a pause I asked, “I mean, is that good?”

  She laughed. “Of course. She’s been great.” Then, lowering her voice, she added, “I did quietly ask her not to bring Antonio.”

  “Banned from the OB/GYN, eh?”

  “Not for good; just this time. He’s so wired about the whole thing that he makes me nervous. I told you, I can’t even snack at work anymore without him giving me the look. Marissa’s going to tell him we need some mother-surrogate bonding time.”

  We spent a few minutes talking about the restaurant before she got around to something she’d probably wondered since I left Washington.

  “How does it feel to be back on the job? Are you officially in the groove?”

  “I wasn’t at first. Think I’m coming around, though. Always helps if there’s an actual villain in the movie, you know?”

  “Got a good one this time?”

  “Won’t know for sure till I meet him. Right now he just seems like a rich, spoiled asshole.”

  “But you’re doing okay?”

  I knew what her question was really about, but I still didn’t have an answer. There was a distinct possibility my head would never be fully okay with the job.

  Yet here I was. As Shakespeare’s Henry V said, Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.

  It seemed there was always another curtain call for Eric Swan. Always another fortification to storm.

  Christina knew it, too. It was why she’d pulled me off the couch and pushed me out the door.

  “I’m doing fine,” I said, using the least-expressive and least-popular word to describe a condition. We both silently agreed to let it slide.

  11

  The room was unique, a suite done up in a Moroccan theme. I don’t know why. My suitcase was propped on one of those folding luggage racks, and a bowl of fresh fruit sat next to a handwritten card from the hotel’s general manager, welcoming me to Houston, the city with no limits—which was a focus-group slogan if I ever heard one. It’s not as fun as Nederland, Colorado’s Home of The Frozen Dead Guy, but not as embarrassing as Augusta’s unofficial slogan, The Asscrack of Georgia.

  After scouting the living arrangements, including the decadent bathroom, I plucked a handful of grapes and took in the view from the window. Staring out over the former capital of the Republic of Texas, it occurred to me I could easily manage a side-hustle as a travel writer. Over the years my assignments had taken me to 44 of the 50 states, as well as Mexico, Canada, and three separate islands in the Caribbean. I’d stayed in first-class joints like this one, but also spent more than a few nights in tents, cardboard shanties, and directly under the stars. My nom de plume could be Mr. Five-Star-to-No-Star.

  Okay, so the name might need work.

  The thing is, I mostly enjoyed the travel, and I was good at it. While some people get anxious just renting a car or finding their way around, to me it’s much more fun getting lost in a strange city than making the same dull commute down the same clogged roads every single day. Granted, a break at home is always appreciated, and I sometimes find myself looking forward to three straight nights in my own bed. But living out of a suitcase is just one continuous adventure. Must be part of my wiring.

  It was close to seven o’clock when Poole called. The fact that she didn’t text, and actually wanted voice communication, told me something was up.

  “Did you get me in to see Deele?”

  She said, “Well, maybe. That’s why I’m calling. I need to check on som
ething with you before I confirm the meeting.”

  “This sounds good. Do they need blood and urine samples first?”

  Poole hesitated, probably wondering if I was serious.

  “Never mind,” I said. “What’s the story?”

  “His personal assistant is Diana Capaldi. I’ll send you a file on her, but it probably won’t be ready until the morning. Ms. Capaldi says you can meet with Mr. Deele at 1 o’clock tomorrow if you don’t mind driving out to a small private airstrip west of the city.”

  “To do what? Meet him as he arrives from South America?”

  “No. He arrives in Houston tomorrow morning, has a quick meeting, and then he’s going out to fly . . . something.”

  “Something?”

  Poole sighed. “I didn’t exactly understand everything she was saying, but I didn’t want to appear unnerved. From what I gather, Mr. Deele enjoys piloting something known as experimental aircraft.”

  I gave a small laugh. “Well, that fits. Agent Fife told me the guy was a bit of a daredevil. I didn’t peg him as Chuck Yeager, but whatever jacks up his adrenaline, I guess. All right, get back with Ms. Capaldi and let her know I’ll be there. Then send me all the info on her and the airstrip.”

  At last I’d get the chance to meet the billionaire entrepreneur. He’d taken the bait.

  The only question I had now was: Would I have to ride along in the toy airplane?

  As promised, two new files from Poole arrived before I awoke. I downloaded them to my tablet, which I then brought to read in the lobby restaurant while sampling the fancy hotel’s breakfast offerings.

  Depending on how you looked at it, Diana Capaldi was either an underachiever or brilliant at career management. Holding a master’s degree with exceptional transcripts and an impressive early resume, she’d launched a career in data science and became something of a star. One of the top journals in the industry featured her in their “Top 35 Under 35” edition, highlighting the best and brightest young executives.

  Which is impressive, no doubt. Yet she left it all behind in order to take a position managing Jason Deele’s calendar, among other things. Hey, there were worse jobs than booking lunches for your boss while jetting around the world, especially when the boss had a bank account with at least nine zeroes before the decimal point. Did she lie awake at night, worried that she’d jettisoned her career too soon, or did she laugh herself to sleep on Mulberry silk sheets?