Field Agent Page 9
Capaldi’s photo wasn’t your traditional, boring headshot; it featured the 34-year-old on the deck of a boat, wearing scuba gear, no doubt the adventurous image Deele preferred for his staff and his company.
Other than that, there wasn’t much meat in this stew. She grew up in a middle-class family in a medium-sized Pennsylvania town, had no police record, never married—at least nothing filed—and had long since deleted all social media accounts. As I devoured my bowl of oatmeal I wondered if that last tidbit was a prerequisite for the job. Perhaps Deele insisted on plugging any and all holes leading inside his operation. If so, I had to admire that.
Still hungry, I went back for seconds and returned with a waffle they’d made in the shape of Texas, which was quite fun for those of us who, for our entire lives, had endured waffles shaped like Wyoming. It was just cute enough that it could’ve been an entry in my imaginary travel blog.
The next file included directions to the private airfield and Poole’s standard counsel: Be careful.
Hey, I could control most of what took place on the ground, but if I found myself airborne, a reluctant passenger, there wouldn’t be much I could do if things went sideways—literally or figuratively. Unless I fought my way to the plane’s controls. Even then, my limited military training might bring some degree of comfort at the stick, but they don’t call them experimental aircraft for nothing.
In fact, it had been almost three years since I last piloted an airplane, and even then piloted may be an exaggeration. An assignment had taken me to the wide open spaces of Montana, where a rancher insisted I take the controls of his beloved Beechcraft while he went back to take a piss. He thought it was damned funny as he left the cockpit and I nervously gripped the yoke. He didn’t think it nearly as funny when I calculated how long it would take him to be in mid-stream and then jerked the plane sideways.
Nor did he find it humorous when later, on the ground, I shot him once in the chest and once in the head, in that order. Laugh at that, cowboy.
I left the hotel at 11, allowing myself plenty of time to navigate the abominable Houston traffic and get outside the Beltway 8 loop. I also wanted time to stop and relieve my own bladder, just in case I found myself buckled into a flying deathtrap. That’s always a bad place to be when nature calls.
The airfield’s security gate was manned by a guy who, no shit, wore aviator sunglasses. I stifled the urge to call him Maverick. He made a show of checking his clipboard—which I’m sure had a grand total of one name on it: mine—then directed me to a small hangar off in that direction. I’d know it, he drawled, because of the large numeral 9 painted on the side. I gave a small salute and motored through.
It was either a slow day, or they all were. I saw few people moving around, and no planes taxiing. Hard to believe an airstrip this close to a major metropolitan area wouldn’t be jumping with activity, but maybe most of the big shots chose to fly their private jets out of IAH or Hobby.
The big 9 loomed just ahead. A corporate helicopter was parked to one side, along with a small collection of cars scattered near the hangar’s door. I noted at least two of them that ran six figures, not counting options. My Jag was so bourgeois.
A man sat perched on a stool just outside a doorway to the hangar. He wasn’t overly muscle-bound, but one glance told me he was tough enough. I figured a clone would be stationed inside. When you were worth millions you might have a bodyguard. When you were worth billions you kept a unit of them.
I strolled as nonchalantly as I could from the car, and had my ID out before I got there.
“Ryan Thomas, here to see Jason Deele,” I said.
The man didn’t smile, but also didn’t scowl. With a cool, professional demeanor he took the ID, studied it, looked at me, then back to the ID. Keying a mic on his lapel he announced my presence to someone inside. I couldn’t hear what came over his earpiece, but he handed back my identification and said, “Someone will be here in just a minute. Will you please raise your arms?”
I pocketed the card and did as he said. As he patted me down, quickly but efficiently, I acted indifferent to the whole process.
“You ever pilot anything?” I asked.
“No. Turn around, please.”
“I tried it a few years ago,” I said. “Never really mastered the landing. They say that’s an important part of the process.”
He finished the search, then resumed his place on the stool, looking off in another direction. It was clear we’d never be in a bowling league together, so I gave up and stood there, pretending to study the horizon.
It was five minutes until the door opened, and a tall, smartly-dressed woman emerged, shielding her eyes from the sun. I recognized her as Diana Capaldi. Unlike the bouncer at the door, she turned on a megawatt smile and extended her hand.
“So sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Thomas. Diana Capaldi. Won’t you come in?”
I followed her inside, the tap-tap of her heels echoing in the large space. Two small planes were parked near a far corner, one of them in the process of maintenance, an overalled man poking around underneath. Ahead of us and up a flight of stairs, lights were on in an office, and that appeared to be our destination. As predicted, another stout, serious gentleman stood near the bottom of the stairs. He sized me up in a professional manner, his hands in front of him, one lightly resting over the other wrist.
“Did you enjoy your night in Houston?” Capaldi asked. “Are you enjoying the ZaZa?”
I hadn’t mentioned where I was staying. Had Poole? I wouldn’t think so.
“It’s my kind of place,” I said. “I prefer boutique hotels. You?”
“Oh, absolutely. Quirky but upscale is the only way to go.”
I doubted she stayed anywhere these days that wasn’t upscale.
We took the stairs while she continued to make pleasant small talk. She didn’t even acknowledge the security beef as we walked past, so I smiled at him and said “Hello.” He responded with a slight nod, while his face radiated distrust and barely-repressed anger.
Inside the office Capaldi indicated a comfortable chair for me and offered something to drink. I declined, and she sat facing me on a fashionable love seat.
“Mr. Deele is looking forward to speaking with you,” she said. “Your timing is perfect. Things are going so well with the business that in another few days we may not have been able to fit you in so quickly.”
“Business picking up domestically?” I asked. “Or mostly from South America?”
“Both, actually,” she said, flashing the smile. “But Paraguay and Argentina are definitely taking off right now. Mr. Deele will be happy to fill you in.”
In other words, she deferred to the boss when it came to business particulars.
“What’s your background, Ms. Capaldi?” I asked, feigning ignorance.
“Please, call me Diana. Well, I’m a small-town girl who couldn’t wait to get to the big city. Happens a lot, these days. I’m afraid small towns are getting smaller each year.”
“I don’t know if Houston can squeeze in any more people,” I said with a smile.
“Isn’t that the truth? Some of us feel like it’s growing so fast it’ll eventually merge with Dallas.”
“Does Mr. Deele fly the helicopter himself to visit the airfield?”
“He detests traffic,” she said in lieu of a direct answer. “Tell me about your work with D.M. Cash. Your specialty is bio-science, is that right?”
And so the pre-interview began. It would be Capaldi’s job to engage me in business chit-chat, to casually pry into my story to see if I really was someone worthy of valuable minutes in the day of the billionaire. Fortunately I’d done my homework on the plane.
“Well, when I enrolled at Duke my passion was evolutionary biology, but pretty soon I realized my calling was more along the lines of biosciences as they pertained to crop management.”
Capaldi nodded as if that was the most natural pivot a biologist could make. I was tempted to make up some
totally extraneous bullshit, just to entertain myself, but decided that could come back to bite me later. Better to stick with the prepared bullshit.
“When DMC came calling, I put them off for a year to do some traveling. I trusted they’d still be interested when I got back.”
“You took a gap year?” she asked, laughing.
“A little sabbatical. Eighteen months, actually. I have a tendency to go above and beyond, especially when I’m having fun.”
“Good for you,” she said.
“But it wasn’t all horsing around and wasting my parents’ money. I spent a lot of that time studying crop management in other countries, mostly Central and South America. Experiential learning, they call it. Well, that made DMC even more interested in hiring me, so my playtime was beneficial, both personally and professionally.”
“And now you’re interested in our work. May I ask what put us on your radar?”
It would’ve been funny to see her reaction if I said, A dead agent with the USDA. Instead I said, “I’ve always been intrigued by alternative approaches, whether it’s alternative energy sources or alternative management techniques. But especially alternative methods of food production.” I chuckled. “When I was finishing up my studies I fancied myself a bit of a granular superhero. You know, solving the world hunger problem with super grains.”
Her smile increased. “The Superman of seeds?”
“Something like that.”
She sat back and draped a long arm across the back of the love seat. “Normally someone with that type of vision strikes out on their own. But you ended up with a mega-corporation. They’re not usually known for radical thinking.”
I fought the urge to fidget. Mostly because she made a good point. But I kept perfectly poised, gave a boyish grin, and dipped into my bag of bullshit.
“Very true. But they also have the resources to make a difference. Rather than stand outside the gate, shaking my fist, I chose to embed myself within the system, then worm my way into a position where I could effect change.”
“And are you?” she asked.
“Slowly but surely. That’s why I’m interested in what Jason Deele is doing with his modified soy. I think something along those lines is the future in preventing global famine.”
Diana Capaldi didn’t respond right away. Instead, she seemed to study my face. Had I overplayed the hand?
Finally she gave a slow nod. “Well, it sounds like you share much of Mr. Deele’s vision. You too should get along quite well.” She stood up. “If you’ll wait here, please, I’ll be back shortly. There are plenty of refreshments right over there, so please help yourself.”
With that she left the room. I imagined she’d be filing her initial report on Ryan Thomas, offering an opinion on whether or not he was a legitimate potential partner.
After a few minutes alone I stood and wandered over to the small alcove functioning as a makeshift kitchen. I filled a glass with ice and poured some ginger ale, picked through a basket with assorted snacks, mostly out of curiosity, but satisfied myself with just the soda.
As I took a second sip the door opened and a rich, baritone voice called out: “If you think I’m doing business with you, you’re crazy.”
I turned, holding my glass of ginger ale, and looked into the face of Jason Deele.
12
Of all the greetings I could’ve received, this one I never anticipated.
I stood still, looking first into the face of the young lion, this billionaire who may or may not have been a cold-blooded killer. Deele’s gaze was one of the steeliest I’d seen. He stood with hands on hips, his feet spread in a challenging stance. Glancing to his left, I studied the glamorous Ms. Capaldi. She gave away nothing.
Had I made a gross miscalculation? Had I flown to Houston only to get rejected before even getting a chance? In a split second I replayed in my head the brief conversation with Capaldi, looking for something I may have said that slammed the door. Or was it something I hadn’t said?
Quickly recovering from the shock, I did what came naturally to me.
I took a sip of my ginger ale and shrugged. Then said, “Crazy? Well, my ex-fiancé would agree. But then, she put milk into the bowl before the cereal. So who’s the crazy one?”
After a pause, Deele walked toward me, stopping two feet away. He continued to glare.
I took another sip.
Then he spoke again. “I grew up a fan of the Tar Heels, Mr. Thomas. You think I’m going to work with a Blue Devil?”
He was talking about the University of North Carolina, and my alleged alma mater, Duke.
After a few tense seconds a smile broke across his face. He stuck out his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Ryan. I suppose I can let your horrific choice of matriculation slide this time.”
After releasing my hand he slapped me on the shoulder and walked over to the kitchen area. “Get you a refill?”
I hid the surge of relief by shaking my head and holding up the half-empty glass. “I’m good, thank you.”
Deele filled a glass from a bottle of sparkling water, then pointed to the sitting area where I’d met with Capaldi.
“How was your flight?” I asked, sitting down.
“Oh, haven’t taken it yet. Just going over a few things with Benjamin first. He designed most of it, and I wanted to have a look before taking off.”
“And it checks out?”
He made a shrugging gesture with his glass. “As far as I can tell. But his last plane crashed on takeoff.”
“When will you come back and fly? I’d love to see it,” I said.
“Come back? No, I’m going up as soon as you and I have finished our little talk. Benjamin’s going with me.”
He took a long drink and set his glass on the coffee table. “You know,” he said, “this particular beauty seats six. How’d you like to be part of a maiden voyage?”
I grunted. “This is another joke, right? Because it’s much funnier than your Tar Heel/Blue Devil schtick.”
“All you have to do is sign some papers saying you don’t hold me or my company responsible, that you understand the risk, that sort of stuff. And we can take off in about twenty minutes.”
Multiple questions ran through my mind. Was he bluffing, just trying to fluster me? Was this some sort of game, a way of challenging anyone who dared to deal with him as an equal? And, perhaps the most important: Was it a test, an initiation into his bubble, a way for him to spot fellow daredevils who might take financial risks with him after they’d conquered personal ones?
If that was the case, how could I say no? I could hear Quanta’s reaction when she discovered I’d missed an opportunity to connect with the target because I didn’t want to go for a ride.
And what did I have to fear? If the plane went down, it would be game over for Deele and this guy Benjamin while I would simply dial up a new body.
Besides, part of my nature—the part that had landed me in trouble too many times to count—is a childish inability to shy away from a dare. It served me well in Special Ops, but also got my ass kicked a few times. Or killed.
All of these thoughts were considered and catalogued to Deele’s great amusement. I’m sure he knew the little tussle going on in my head and loved the power of provoking such a dilemma.
“Yeah, what the hell,” I said. “The blood of Charles Lindbergh flows through my veins.”
His eyes grew wide. “No shit.”
“Total shit,” I said. “My ancestors always took the train.”
He laughed and stood up, preparing to leave the room.
I looked up at him. “I was hoping we’d be able to talk some business, too.”
“The only way I was going to talk shop with you was if you agreed to go for this joy ride. So put in the time cloud-hopping with me, and I’ll be delighted to chat about the wonderful world of soybeans.” He walked toward the door and called back to me: “Diana will have you sign some things. I’ll see you on the tarmac.”
She took a deep breath. “I’ve always told Mr. Deele that some day he’s going to be too bold for his own good.”
I grunted. “Just not today, okay?”
Obviously I wasn’t the first guest Jason Deele had lured into the sky. They had prepared documents ready for me to sign, all stating I understood the significant risk of death or severe injury, and I waived claims of any kind against Jason Deele or his company, his associate Benjamin Hughes and his company, and basically anyone else who’d ever had anything to do with Deele, Hughes, or the airfield. It would’ve been funny trying to find the tiniest detail they could’ve possibly overlooked, but I probably signed away my chance to even sue the guy who filled the vending machine.
Or we could just not crash and call it a day.
Fifteen minutes later I walked back down the stairs to find the large sliding doors to the hangar thrown open, and a sparkling new machine parked right outside. The guy with the overalls had turned his attention to this craft, and was getting help from a wiry dude with a straight-out-of-the-70s mustache. This Burt Reynolds look-alike appeared to be schooling the mechanic on some detail near the tail section. I assumed the teacher was Benjamin Hughes.
It was. Deele walked over and made the introductions. Hughes shook my hand but seemed to be as uninterested in me as a person could be. My snap assessment was that he cared about his machines way more than he cared about people.
“What do you think of the Amy Leigh?” Deele asked with a smile, nodding toward the airplane.
“Well, it looks like an airplane,” I said, walking around it. “I guess when I heard experimental aircraft I expected something really bizarre.”