He almost opened the door, but then remembered all the stories he had been reading about robberies and home invasions. So, he decided to look through the eye port in the middle of the door to see who it was.
Through the fisheye lens, Schwartz saw a swarthy looking man with a mustache. He looked Middle Eastern. Then, something covered up the eye port. Schwartz was still trying to figure out what it was when a .38 caliber bullet blasted through the port, tore through his brain, and exited through the back of his head. He was dead when he hit the floor.
Chapter 33
G.W. FISH STOOPED in the rich loam in the plot at one end of the long greenhouse. The plot held six rows of mature corn, twenty-four separate varieties in all. Fish looked like a surgeon wearing a green smock, matching protective pants, latex gloves, and coverings for his feet and head. He also wore what looked like a pair of glasses with a jeweler’s magnifying glass in place of the right lens.
He inspected a leaf that had been tagged around the stem with a plastic yellow tie. The leaf was a mass of black fungus growth and dead, brown plant tissue. Fish jotted down a few notes in the skinny notebook he carried in his back pocket.
He moved to the other leaves of the same cornstalk. He found large black spots everywhere. The plant was riddled with it. Fish then moved away from the plant that he had originally infected on the single leaf with the fungus known only as J-287. He examined the other cornstalks, getting farther and farther away from the original infection site. He found spots of the black fungus on every plant. He measured the spots and took copious notes.
After Fish finished inspecting the corn, he moved on to the important part of his survey. He moved to the plot at the far end of the greenhouse, 200 feet away from where he started. The plot held several types of wild grasses, including the varieties that forced corn farmers to use herbicides because they constantly threatened to invade their fields. Most of the grasses also showed the signs of J-287 infection despite the considerable distance from the initial infection site and the fact that the greenhouse protected everything in it from the wind that sometimes blew ferociously at Mendocino on the northern California coast.
The only wind in the greenhouse was generated by fans at the top which sucked air out of the greenhouse. This kept the greenhouse at a slightly negative air pressure and ensured that the reproductive spores of the fungus would not drift out an open door. The fans that blew the air out had special filters to trap the spores.
As Fish had expected, J-287 had successfully infected in the greenhouse a good sampling of the varieties of corn grown commercially in the United States, including strains specifically developed to be resistant to fungi. It had accomplished this despite treatments of various fungicides.
What pleased Fish the most, however, was the fact that J-287 thrived on the grasses as well as the corn. Fish had transplanted a key gene from a similar fungus that used the grasses as its host. That had been Fish’s true inspiration in creating J-287 and what distinguished J-287 from earlier generations of the fungus that Fish had created. It had transformed the fungus from a nasty problem to an agricultural nightmare. What it meant was that destruction of infected fields would not stop J-287. It would spread through the grass, making an end run around the most drastic field burns.
Short of dropping a hydrogen bomb, then, there was no way to deny J-287 the host plants it needed to flourish and expand its conquered territory once it was off and running. Until new chemicals and new strains of corn were developed, J-287 was unstoppable.
As he pulled away from the greenhouse in his pickup for the long drive back to Palo Alto, Fish felt a supreme sense of satisfaction. His only regret was that he wouldn’t be able to name J-287 as should have been his privilege. That honor would fall to some poor bastard who would isolate J-287 in a futile attempt to stop it.
• • •
IT WAS MIDDAY when Lee returned to Phoenix. He had only slept for a few hours in a spare bedroom provided by the AgriGenics farmboys, as he now thought of them. His face was sore and his left eye was turning black. His kidneys hurt where Chris had pummelled him. They had driven him back to the converted hangar outside of Cartwright where Lee retrieved the Tempo. The farmboys had provided him with samples of the rice plants they were growing. In the glove compartment there also sat a small bottle with a screw-on top filled with the fungus solution that was being sprayed on the rice.
He checked into the Ramada Inn in downtown Phoenix. He left most of his luggage in the car, carrying a change of clothes and his toothbrush in a small duffel bag. When he reached his room, Lee let the door slam behind him, dropped his bag on the floor and fell onto the bed. He lay there in the cool air conditioning, feeling anew all the aches and pains. There was too much that needed to be done for him to sleep, but he needed to gather his strength.
After 15 minutes, Lee pushed himself off the bed, staggered into the shower, and let the hot water wash and relax him. Then, he let the cold water shock him awake. When he was finished, he toweled off, brushed his teeth, and pulled on a new pair of jeans and T-shirt. He felt halfway normal again.
Lee sat on the bed with the telephone at his side, and started dialing.
First, he tried the California Department of Agriculture. After being transferred four times, he reached the director of the Pest and Plant Diseases Program. The director said he hadn’t heard anything about a strange new fungus attacking this year’s rice crop. Lee then called the California Rice Growers Association and posed the same question to the organization’s executive director. He got the same puzzled and negative response.
Lee tried Texas next. After 20 minutes and five transfers within the state Department of Agriculture, he was getting nowhere, so he tried the state’s rice growers association. He reached Bert Wylie, the association’s assistant director. When he asked whether Wylie had heard of any new disease or fungus problems with this year’s crop, there was silence on the other end.
“Mister Wylie? You still there?” asked Lee.
“Uhh…yes. What did you say again?”
Lee repeated the question.
“Can you hold the line for just a minute?” Lee was put on hold before he could reply. He spent the next 10 minutes reviewing the room service menu and waiting for Wylie to pick up again.
When a voice came on the line, it wasn’t Wylie’s.
“Hello, this is Gregory James, executive director of the association. May I help you?”
“Yes. As I was telling Mister Wylie, I’m Enzo Lee of the San Francisco News. I’m checking to see whether you’ve heard of any unusual problems with the rice crop this year, any diseases or fungus problems.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I heard there might be some problems,” said Lee.
“Who did you say you were with?”
“The San Francisco News.”
“I see. San Francisco, huh? Well, I don’t see why we have to tell you anything.”
“You don’t, really,” said Lee. “I just thought I’d check on a background basis - I don’t have to quote you - before I passed on my information to the agriculture reporter at the Dallas Times Herald. I assume, of course, that if anything like this was going on you all wouldn’t try to hide it. There must be all sorts of state regulations about reporting plant diseases, especially for someone in your position.”
James was silent for a while.
“I tell you what you should do. Was it Mister Key?”
“Lee.”
“Right. You should call a fella named Bill Bridges. He’s a grower down in Gila County. He’s also the chairman of the board of directors of the local growers’ coop down there.” James gave Lee the number.
Bridges was on the phone when he called, so Lee waited 10 minutes and tried again. He got through on the second try.
“Billy, here.”
“Hello, Mister Bridges. I’m Enzo Lee…”
“I know who yuh are. A goddamn reporter, huh. Stickin yur goddamn nose in where it ain’t
wanted. Yuh sure got those nervous nellies at the state association shittin in their pants.”
“So, you know why I’m calling?”
“Sure do. Look, son. I’ll cut the bullshit. Yeah, we got a problem down here. I ain’t gonna lie to yuh. It started about a week ago. Somethin’s eatin up our rice, turnin the plants black in nuthin flat. It’s spreadin like crazy, too. Now, we delayed tellin the state. We tried a few things on our own down here. Got a botanist involved and everythin. But, it ain’t workin. Nothin is.”
“So, you’re going to report it to the state now?” said Lee.
“Yeah. I’ll probably take some heat for not tellin ‘em sooner. We just didn’t want to panic everyone, get the state down here destroyin every goddamn field. But, we got no choice now.”
“Okay, Billy. Listen. I’m not even going to talk to the state. I’ll let you figure out how to break the news to them. But, I have one favor to ask. I’d like to have your botanist send samples of the diseased plants to somebody.”
Lee gave Billy Bridges the address for Benjamin Nussbaum in New York.
The next call that Lee made was to Lorraine Carr back at the News.
“Hi, Lorraine. It’s Enzo.”
“Enzo. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Still kicking. Anything new there?”
“Pilmann found out that you’re on the Ten Most Wanted List. He’s somewhere past Code Red. I’d say he’s early ballistic. Definitely. I told him, and I quote, ‘Lee says it’s all a mistake and he will explain everything.’”
“I imagine that was like spreading oil on troubled waters, huh?” said Lee.
“He turned purple and didn’t say anything.”
“Wonderful. Any other news?”
“Well, your detective friend called yesterday. She seemed very eager to talk to you.”
“Connors?” said Lee. “Okay.”
“And Sarah called. She said to tell you she’s staying at…let me see…I put it into my computer…the Radisson out at the airport. And her name is Susan Blakely”
“Okay. Great.”
“You know, Enzo. I like passing the love messages.”
“C’mon, Lorraine.”
“No, I mean it. The way she said, ‘Tell, Enzo.’ It was, well, sort of breathless.”
“She was probably jogging at the time. Look, Lorraine. I promise that if Sarah and I tie the knot, you can pick the band.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. But, nothing kinky. I mean if there’s sex on stage, I want it to be in the missionary position.”
“You’re so middle class, Enzo.”
After he hung up, Lee called long distance information and got the Radisson out by the San Francisco International Airport. Sarah picked up the phone on the second ring.
“Hello.”
“Miss Blakely, I presume.”
“Enzo! Are you okay? Where are you?”
“Back in Phoenix,” said Lee. “It’s been an exciting time and I’ve got the bruises to show for it. But, basically I’m okay.”
“Oh no. Well, it’s good to hear your voice,” said Sarah. “You sound really tired. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I got kicked around a little bit by some AgriGenics boys,” said Lee. “You won’t believe this, but once they found out who I was, instead of filleting me with a dull knife they spilled their guts to me and let me go. A very bizarre experience. I’ll fill you in on the details later. How did things go on your end?”
“Well, we had luck, too. Sam Schwartz turned out to be a gold mine. We waltzed into AgriGenics’ headquarters last night and rummaged through the accounting records.”
“You’re kidding. That’s great. What did you find?”
“Well, the secret side of the company is bigger than ever,” said Sarah. “It brought in $80 million last year. Then, it looks like $90 million came in earlier this year, maybe in one transaction.”
“Wow. That’s a serious chunk of the company’s earnings.”
“Right,” said Sarah. “Also, the money comes in now from overseas. And except for the latest deal, the payments correspond almost exactly with shipments by AgriGenics abroad.”
“Okay,” said Lee. “So that supports the export angle that Brent Donsen was working. What does Arthur say about this, Sarah?”
“He’s surprised at the amount of off-the-books work. When he was dumped, the volume of work was declining. You know, because of budget cuts, the end of the Cold War and all that. Apparently, the work and the money stopped for awhile and then the money began coming in again two years ago. Lots of it.”
“It sounds to me like Brian Graylock takes AgriGenics’ dirty little secret and turns it into an international profit center,” said Lee
“That’s certainly one interpretation.”
“Okay. Listen, Sarah. Unless you think there’s another Sam Schwartz out there to see, I think we should head back to New York. Are they still looking for Arthur?”
“Well, it’s at the end of the newscasts now.”
“It will be safer on the east coast, I think,” said Lee. “Also, I’ve got some ideas about getting out of this. It’s at least a glimmer at the end of the tunnel. And it will work a lot better out there. Why don’t you see if Arthur has any objection.”
Sarah put down the phone and picked up again after two minutes.
“He agrees,” said Sarah. “Where should we meet you?”
“Let’s go to the Morris Hotel. It’s at 45th St and Eighth Avenue, near Times Square. Oh, and I think you should fly out of Sacramento. I know it sets you back a couple of hours. If I were them, I’d have the San Francisco airport staked out.”
“Okay. We’ll see you when we get there.”
• • •
THE AMERICAN AIRLINES direct flight to New York was just crossing into New Mexico and still gaining altitude. Lee had loosened his seat belt and settled back to make up a few hours of his lost sleep. His mind was still racing, though, processing what Sarah had told him and turning over again what he had learned from the young men growing rice in the Arizona desert.
He realized that he had made the mistake of thinking of AgriGenics as a monolith. He had forgotten that institutions are made up of people, with different motivations and loyalties. How many others at AgriGenics were like the farmboys, or Sam Schwartz? Others might talk, given the opportunity if they could overcome their fear of Brian Graylock and his security force. Everything pointed to Graylock as the linchpin at AgriGenics, guarding the secret operation at all cost.
Even as Lee drifted off to sleep, he was turning over in his mind possible ways to get to AgriGenics’ charismatic CEO.
• • •
IT WAS 3 P.M. when Agent Spreckel pulled up in his unmarked car outside the Radisson. With three backup agents, in tow, he stormed into the manager’s office, flashed his credentials, and got her to hand over a pass key.
Spreckel stationed himself outside room 708 with his gun drawn while Agent Jim Mobley stood poised, ready to put the pass key into the lock. According to proper procedure, Spreckel wasn’t supposed to stand directly in front of the door. However, Spreckel was absolutely sure the only bullets flying through the doorway would be coming from his direction.
When Mobley flung open the door with a loud war hoop that almost caused Spreckel to squeeze off a round, Spreckel raced through the door. He wanted to make this look good. Anyone inside was coming out feet first. He’d worry about justification later. He didn’t want his backup in a position to second guess him.
He saw in an instant the room was empty. No clothes lying around. No slippers on the floor by the bed. Not a suitcase in sight. He knew before they went down the hall that they’d find the same thing in the girl’s room.
When he led Mobley and the others out of the Radisson, Spreckel left the pass key still stuck in the lock of room 706. He didn’t even bother to see when Sendaki and the girl had checked out. An hour ago. Five minutes. It didn’t really matter and would probably just aggravate
him. There would be other opportunities. Sooner or later he’d be on time.
Chapter 34
LEE WAS BACK in the converted airport hangar in Arizona, trapped in the dark maze, feeling his way down long corridors and through pitch-black rooms. And all the time there was something behind him, chasing him, getting close. He had been moving too slowly, fumbling his way through the darkness, and whatever it was that pursued him was right behind him. In his dream, Lee had turned to face it, ready to fight. He waited for what seemed like an eternity for the thing to strike, totally blind and with his panic growing.
Lee heard an impatient knock on the door. He realized the knocking must have awakened him. He tossed back the covers, got out of bed and pulled on his pants. There was another knock when he reached the door. He jerked it open and it caught on the security chain. He saw Sarah through the crack.
When he finally got the door opened, they embraced for a long time. He closed his eyes and let his face rest in her hair. He felt he could almost drift off to sleep like this without fear of nightmares.
Then Sendaki cleared his throat, and Lee realized he had been standing in the hallway waiting to get into the room. They stepped aside to let Sendaki through. Lee left Sendaki and Sarah in the outer room and went back into the bedroom to put on a shirt and call room service. While the trio waited for breakfast, they compared notes on the last two days.
“So,” said Sendaki, taking his first sip of coffee. “Sarah tells me you have a plan. She doesn’t know what it is, but she seems to have the utmost confidence in you.”
“Well, it’s more of a strategy, really, than a plan,” said Lee. “We’ve dug up a lot of good information so far and it’s time to start putting it to use. It doesn’t prove everything we know or suspect. But, there’s enough to get started. The main thing is to turn this situation around. Put the pressure on them for a change. Let them make a mistake.
“They’ve effectively blocked me from writing anything directly,” Lee continued. “The drug thing was a stroke of genius. Plus, the professional problems I had here in New York just destroy my credibility for a story like this one. I’ve got to be honest about that. But, there are other ways.
Project Moses - A Mystery Thriller (Enzo Lee Mystery-Thriller Series) Page 21