by Josie Brown
As for plants that are bolting, hack them down to the root, and replant at the optimum time.
In two of these cases, you’ll never make the same mistake twice.
Too bad the same can’t be said about relationships.
“By jove, old girl! You had a run-in with Liang Xia and lived to tell about it?” Dominic Fleming’s left brow rises even with his ash blond forelock.
I shrug. “Pardon? Who is that?”
He curls a finger, beckoning me toward one of Acme’s conference rooms. Besides Dominic, our tech-op Arnie Locklear is there too, as well as Jack; our mission team’s field-op, Abu Nagashahi; Acme’s ComInt director—Arnie’s wife, Emma Honeycutt; and Acme’s fearless leader, Ryan Clancy.
They hover over Arnie’s chair. When I’m close enough, I see why: on Arnie’s computer screen is the face of the woman who picked up Yang Cheng’s Buddha figurine.
Liang Xia, I presume.
“Yep, that’s our gal,” I murmur.
Abu lets loose with a low whistle. “According to her dossier, she’s a Chinese-American operative for the PRC—People’s Republic of China. The CIA has her pegged for at least sixteen exterminations of Chinese dissidents, or their relatives, who had been granted political asylum by other governments, including the United States.”
“Have we discovered what intel was being traded?” Jack asks Emma.
She frowns. “The Buddha held a microdot. It’s encrypted with a number for an account in a private bank on St. Kitts and Nevis, in the name of Yu Li.”
“It means ‘beauty,’ in Mandarin,” Dominic informs us. “The most famous Yu Li was the lover of a Third Century Qin Dynasty warlord, Xiang Yu.”
Ryan shakes his head. “I didn’t know you spoke the language.”
“I’ve picked up a phrase, here and there.”
Jack winks at me. “There, being…?”
Dominic shrugs. “Beijing. From one of my second wives.”
I cock my head in disbelief. “Really? I never knew you were married once, let alone twice!” His choice of words gives me pause. “‘One of your second wives?’ Stop me if I’m wrong, but can’t you only have one spouse at a time—first, second, or other?”
“In China, ‘second wife’ is an expression used to describe the most coveted ladies of the night. They are kept on retainers, for the exclusive enjoyment of their patrons. I should know. When I go to Beijing, I have two of them on call at all times.” He winks at me. “Double your pleasure, double your fun, eh?”
Disgusted, I shake my head. “You truly are a man-ho, you know that?”
Jack laughs. “Or what the Chinese would call a yín chóng.”
The smile fades from Dominic’s face. “You’re off yer chump, old boy! Yín chóng is a term of endearment, or some such.”
“Nope, Jack is right. Says it right here.” Arnie taps his computer screen, where he’s opened a page containing the term’s literal Mandarin Chinese translation.
“It can’t be. My second wives call me that all the time, especially when we’re in the midst of a little rumpy-pumpy…” He stops mid-sentence as the fog of narcissism lifts, finally, revealing the rock-hard truth of his paid paramours’ opinions.
Everyone looks anywhere else: at their feet, the ceiling, even out the window. As for me, I scrutinize the polish on my nails.
Oh bother, a pinkie is chipped.
Ryan’s gruff harrumph draws all eyes to him. “We were discussing Xia, remember? Considering that what she handed Yang Cheng, the proof we need that a bioterrorism scheme to sabotage America’s food supply is already underway, I suggest we keep to the task at hand.”
Our smirks fade. Yes, we are all ears.
“The Chinese have buried the cipher text within the photos of each postcard. Sadly, Emma’s ComInt team has deciphered only two of the four cards,” Ryan pauses. “But what we now know is that it involves the distribution of a super-GMO seed—that is, a genetically modified organism. The seed contains a strain of a deadly virus—something doctors call an HCMV—which is associated with incurable brain cancer.”
“What kind of seed?” Abu asks.
“Corn,” Ryan declares, “which, as we all know, is the second largest crop grown in this country. Just last year, American farmers planted over eighty million acres of it.” He sighs, as if the scope of the mission has just now hit him.
“Corn, like soy, is in practically everything,” Emma murmurs. It’s used as a sweetener in thousands of products, as oil, and as filler. But, thank God, it’s not used in baby formula.”
I know why that is foremost on her mind: she recently went through the emotional debate of whether to wean her infant Nicky from her breast milk. Right now, she is still expressing her milk. No doubt that, from what she’s just learned, she’ll continue to do so for quite some time.
“Do we know who has the killer seed strain?” I ask.
“Yes,” Ryan answers. “The cipher team pulled up the name SeedPlenish.”
“Figures,” Emma sniffs. “It’s the world’s largest agrichemical corporation. From what I recall, it was one of the first to hit the market with genetically modified seeds.”
“Have these death seeds already been distributed?” Dominic asks.
“It doesn’t look like it. But from what was written in the cipher, it might be leaving SeedPlenish in as little as seventy-two hours.”
Concerned, Jack shakes his head. “So, what’s the game plan, boss?”
“Acme—with you as mission leader, Jack—stops the death seeds before they ever leave the warehouse and make it into the food chain.”
“And that the public never learns how close we came to a full-blown pandemic,” I mutter.
“Wow,” Arnie mutters. “Talk about mass chaos! People will stampede grocery stores in search of food distributed prior to this week. And no one will touch any food products made with corn.”
“Except for fruit and vegetables, corn is in practically everything,” I add in agreement. “Despite FDA packaging regulations, many food products contain traces of corn and are incorrectly labeled.”
“Don’t forget: even fields that haven’t been planted with GMOs are sometimes cross-pollinated,” Abu points out. “If the wind doesn’t shift a few errant seeds, birds pluck the plants buds and drop them on their way to their nests.”
Emma’s eyes open wide. “Oh, my God! If word of this gets out, American farmers and ranchers will be financially devastated!”
“Even worse, they’ll be dying, like everyone else,” Arnie mutters.
“Hopefully not, if we can rope this in as quickly as possible,” Ryan declares. He nods to Arnie, who clicks a button on his computer.
A photo of a corporate campus appears on Arnie’s computer screen. It is comprised of a round six-story building. Like spokes, long and narrow buildings branch out from it. The entire campus is surrounded by a tall fence.
“SeedPlenish’s corporate headquarters happens to be located here in the LA Metroplex—Irvine, to be exact. You’ll all be going undercover there.” Ryan faces Arnie. “You’re assigned to the IT department, working with the Optimization Modeling group. In that position, you’ll be able to scan through its marketing and distribution channels. You can also tap into the main database in order to provide the rest of the team its security coverage.”
Arnie gives him a thumbs-up.
“Abu, you’ve been hired as a truck dispatcher,” Ryan informs him. “That way, we’ll be able to monitor SeedPlenish’s distribution routes for its corn seed.”
Abu nods.
Next, Ryan turns to Jack. “Acme Financial Services has been contracted to conduct a financial audit. You’ll be heading it up. This gives you the opportunity to look for recent investment capital from Asian corporations that may be acting as a front for the payoff to SeedPlenish to put the death seed in play. You’ll also help us identify which of SeedPlenish’s key accounts will be tapped to put this product in play. That way, we can do an end-run as quickly as
possible.”
Jack nods as he takes notes.
“Dominic, your cover is that of a reporter with The Financial Times. You’ll be doing a feature on SeedPlenish’s research division—specifically, the Biotechnology team, which is headed up by Dr. Lauren Rutgers. Because the SeedPlenish public relations department has already promised to bend over backwards to get you what you need in order to score a great article in such a prestigious newspaper, she’ll be at your disposal to answer any and all questions you have.”
“‘Bend over backwards’?” Dominic smirks. “Now, that sounds promising!”
But then he sees her profile picture in her dossier, which shows a somewhat short, mousy woman, wearing a lab coat.
Dominic winces. “Crikey! Not so easy on the eyes.”
To shut him up, Emma nudges him.
“Donna, there is an opening for a file clerk to the director of SeedPlenish’s Plant Breeding Laboratory. His name is Dr. Thomas Wellborne. He’s renowned in the biotech field, a recipient of both the Biotech Humanitarian Award, and the Astia Life Science Innovators Award.” The picture that now appears on the screen shows a balding, broad-shouldered man in his early forties. What little hair he has is already graying. He too wears a lab coat. “We need to determine the stage of cultivation for the seed strain.”
“In other words, if it’s still in the lab, we can stop it before it gets on a truck, and mission accomplished,” I reason.
Ryan nods. “The quickest way to cripple the U.S. economy is an act of bioterrorism, which has the potential to cause mass hysteria—in this case, deaths in the millions, coupled with a possible collapse of the economy. It’s not the first time such an act has been considered. The Russians have been working on an Ebola bioweapon at least since the mid-seventies. But this is just as dangerous, if not more so. Even if the victim is isolated, there is no medical cure.”
“The Chinese must have coded the killer seed so that it can also track its food production and distribution. Emma’s team is looking for clues of this in the postcards just in case we can’t find the seeds before they leave SeedPlenish.” As that sinks in, Ryan shrugs. “Maybe it’s time that we break for lunch. Let’s meet back here in forty-five minutes for a strategy session.”
As we gather our things, Dominic hands out envelopes. “Invitations to my garden party,” he proclaims. “It should be rather spiffing! The usual: tea and cakes—and p’raps something with a little more kick on the side.” He winks broadly at Jack.
“Dash it! We’ll be out of town that weekend,” I murmur sweetly.
His eyes narrow suspiciously. “Poppycock! How would you know that, since you’ve yet to open it and read the date?”
Ouch! Caught red-handed. Processing…Processing…
Before I can finagle my foot even deeper into my mouth, Ryan shouts, “Craig and Stone—now!”
Jack jerks me in the direction of Ryan’s office.
Ryan waits until we close the door before stating, “Of course, I had to report our findings to POTUS. Obviously, he asks that we update him and Homeland Security on our mission. If we fail and it gets out into the food supply, its destruction will be nearly impossible to stop, and a public announcement will have to be made immediately.” Hesitantly, Ryan adds, “POTUS asks that we provide him with mission updates, in live time. Donna, you can be his point person.”
Before I can pass on the honor—something I feel I should do, especially since Jack is our mission leader—Ryan’s phone rings. He picks it up, scowls, and waves us out the door.
Jack frowns, for good reason. Our opinions differ greatly regarding President Lee Chiffray.
Jack feels we can’t trust him. He is also very aware that Lee is attracted to me.
Okay, perfectly understandable. Then again, I don’t trust the First Lady, Babette Breck Chiffray—and not just because she flirts with Jack every chance she gets.
Time to change the subject to something more pleasant. “Want to go out and grab a sandwich?”
“Not really, especially not after what I just heard,” Jack mutters.
“Me neither,” I admit. “So, how do we kill our lunch time?”
He points to the BMW lot, across the street. “What say we pick out another family-friendly car?”
I feel my jaw dropping. “You mean, you’re parting ways with the Jackmobile?”
He shrugs. “We’ve got a growing family. On carpool mornings, squeezing three of us into the Lamborghini isn’t exactly fun—at least, not for me. However, Mary and Evan don’t seem to mind being jostled into such close quarters.”
That’s all he has to say to convince me. I grab his hand and lead him toward the door. “Think we can do it in less than an hour?”
“I don’t know, but I’d like to give it a try. We need to be normal, if only for an hour.” His smile fades. “Well, I do, anyway.”
I take his hand to lead him out the door. He’s right. If only for an hour, it would be nice to forget that the future of the whole human race depends on us.
“I’m telling Ryan that I don’t feel comfortable being the point person with Lee.” No better time to broach the subject than while Jack has a broad smile on his face, like he does now, as we test-drive a shiny black BMW i8.
I don’t think the car salesman thought Jack was serious when he told him we were taking a spin up the Pacific Coast Highway. But from the look on his crestfallen face as we tore out of the lot, I give it another ten minutes before a couple of CHiP officers are pulling us over for grand theft auto.
“You’ll do no such thing!” Jack proclaims.
“Pardon?” I turn to stare at him. This certainly isn’t the reaction I expected. A relieved shrug, perhaps. Or he could thank me with a kiss. Then again, considering we’re going up the PCH at ninety miles an hour, maybe that’s not such a great idea.
Jack prefaces his answer with a shrug. “Think about it. There’s got to be some reason as to why Lee wants to keep his eye on you.”
Annoyed, I whip around. “You’re always blaming Lee. If you remember correctly, Ryan made the suggestion. He keeps dangling me in front of Lee—”
“Trust me, I’ve noticed—like some sort of sparkly door prize.” Jack’s right brow lifts along with a smirk. “You already know my theory: Lee isn’t quite the choirboy you make him out to be.”
“Must we go there, yet again?” I turn my head so that he doesn’t see the heat flush that is pinking my cheeks, then I remember it’s unlikely that he’ll take his eyes off the road.
“You misunderstand me.” Jack glances my way, but only for a second, since we’re coming up fast on a van. When he dodges around it, the driver toots his horn.
“How so?”
Jack veers off onto Topanga Canyon Road. In my van, the curves would make me queasy. In the i8, it’s as if we’re floating at warp speed. “Granted, he practically salivates when you’re within his peripheral vision—so, yes, I’d like to punch him in the face. Sadly, doing so would put me in a jail cell for the rest of my life, so I keep my cool. But, Donna, I don’t think it’s the only reason he wants to keep tabs on you.”
“Oh?” I frown. Okay, yeah, I’m a little hurt that Jack thinks it could be anything else.
“Remember, Carl’s demise didn’t put the Quorum out of commission. Just this morning Emma’s ComInt team finally found the connection we suspected between the Quorum and Graffias International—the banking and software conglomerate that provided the helicopter for Tatyana Zakharov’s getaway to and from Damascus.”
Tatyana—formerly a hard woman with Russia’s foreign intelligence services, the SVR—was a part of the Quorum at the same time as Carl. She led a terrorist attack on President Chiffray here in Los Angeles, where Jeff was also taken hostage.
That earned her a shove into an empty elevator shaft. If you mess with my kids, you’re going down—in her case, nineteen stories, to be exact.
So, yes, this new little tidbit is interesting. “Even if Graffias International is fronting fo
r the Quorum, what does that have to do with Lee?”
“Didn’t you once tell me that Lee has always claimed that he’d never even heard of the Quorum, or had dealings with its members prior to purchasing Jonah Breck’s conglomerate?”
I nod.
Jonah was one of the billionaires who secretly funded the Quorum’s acts of terrorism, and in the process enlarged his very public fortune—which, unbeknownst to his stockholders who thought they were investing in green tech start-ups and eco-friendly resorts, included a snuff porn production company and website. A power play between Jonah and Carl left one man standing: Carl, whom Jonah had hired as a security consultant.
I guess you could say it turned out to be the worst business decision of his life.
“I’d once asked Lee when and how he met Carl. He told me that after Jonah’s death, Babette arranged for Carl to negotiate the deal between Breck Industries and Lee’s corporation, Global World Industries,” I point out.
“That’s according to Lee,” he smirks. “There’s a sheet of paper, folded in my jacket pocket. Pull it out.”
“That’s what she said,” I mutter, as I oblige him. The pocket is taut against his broad chest, making it harder than it would be normally.
We pass a gang of bikers on HOGs. They glance over in time to see me lean into Jack, and toot their horns. One of them shouts, “Gimmee some of that too, chickee-baby!”
Instead, Jack leaves them in the dust.
“I’m glad I wasn’t fishing in your pants pocket,” I say wryly.
“I’m not,” he murmurs.
When we reach the road’s highest point, he pulls over. For a moment, we sit there, staring west. A thin ribbon of blacktop barely separates the rugged hillside from the vast and torrid Pacific Ocean.
Finally, I unfold the paper. It’s a list of Graffias’ board of directors from eight years ago.
Lee’s name is on it.
So is the name, Jonah Breck,
“At the time, Graffias was a privately held company. It’s one of the reasons why this information stayed below the radar until now,” Jack reminds me.