by Tim Downs
“You said Semchenko has some people worried. Why?”
“Because he’s a force to be reckoned with, or at least he’s going to be. Before the Russian revolution, Russia was the largest exporter of grain in the world—today it’s the U.S. We produce 43 percent of the world’s corn—that’s more than the next nine producers combined. China is second; Russia isn’t even on the list. Semchenko wants to put Russia back on top again, and he just might be able to do it. He’s already a player in the global corn market. He only grows corn, by the way.”
“Why corn?”
“Because it’s in everything. Walk into a grocery store and look around; every fourth product you see used corn during production or processing. Corn syrup, cornstarch, corn oil, corn flour—corn is the big cash crop right now, and everybody’s planting it. Our own farmers are planting over ninety million acres this year—that’s up 15 percent from the year before. Of course, it’s mostly ethanol that’s driving up corn prices all over the world.”
“Why ethanol?”
“Because everybody’s got the same problem we do: a shortage of oil. Right now ethanol is the big alternative fuel. The government subsidizes it in the U.S.—that’s one of the things that’s been driving up corn prices here. We make all our ethanol out of corn. It takes a lot of it, and the demand keeps increasing. A year from now onethird of all the corn we grow will be used for ethanol. It’s very controversial.”
“What’s the controversy?”
“Well, there’s the environmental thing: Corn takes a lot of energy to grow. Picture a square of corn twenty feet by twenty feet. It takes a pound of nitrogen to grow that corn—that’s a lot of fertilizer. More corn means more fertilizer; more fertilizer means more runoff; more runoff means more polluted rivers and ponds. Then there’s the economic issue: A lot of people think ethanol is just a boondoggle. It contains a third less energy than gasoline, and so far it takes almost as much energy to produce it as it yields. It isn’t any cheaper than gasoline either.”
“Then why is ethanol so popular?”
“Because it’s renewable, because it reduces greenhouse gases—and, frankly, because we’ve got corn to burn.”
“It seems a shame to burn corn just because we have so much.”
“Well, that’s the biggest controversy—the whole ‘food-for-fuel’ thing. Is it moral to burn a food source when so many people are starving worldwide? Some people say no, and they feel very strongly about it.”
“I thought the corn that’s used to make ethanol isn’t edible.”
“It’s not. But more and more land is being used to grow that corn—land that could be used to grow edible corn instead.”
“What’s the USDA’s position?”
“We don’t take an official position, but we try to bring some balance to the discussion. We remind people that we’ve never had to choose between food and fuel. There’s always been enough land to grow corn for both.”
“But what happens if the demand for ethanol keeps increasing?” Macy asked. “What will it do to food aid? What happens if the U.S. has to start choosing between growing food for starving countries and filling up our gas tanks? Charity begins at home, you know.”
“Some people think that’ll happen. I don’t think it will.”
“Why not?”
“Because it won’t be long before we figure out how to make ethanol out of something else. The Brazilians do it—they make theirs out of sugarcane. It’s only a matter of time until somebody invents a cheap enzyme that can make ethanol out of wood chips or saw grass—that’ll solve the problem. It’s all a matter of market forces. It’s just cheaper to make ethanol out of corn right now; when it isn’t, we won’t do it anymore. Did you know Henry Ford designed his first car to run on ethanol?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“It’s true—the only reason he converted it to run on gasoline was that gas was cheaper. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“So you think Semchenko is positioning himself to be a player in the world corn market?”
“A big player—maybe the biggest. He’s already got the land; he just needs to increase his productivity. Personally, I think he’s got the potential to eventually outproduce us. The U.S. hasn’t had any serious competition for a long time. Semchenko could really change the game.”
Macy nodded. “Let’s just hope he plays by the same rules we do.”
36
Pasha slipped his hand into the pouch of his NC State sweatshirt and used the fabric to shield his finger as he punched the access code into the security keypad. He kept his Wolfpack ball cap pulled low over his eyes and the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head, though the temperature was still over eighty and an early morning dew was already beginning to settle. A moment later he heard a soft click and a buzz. He reached for the door handle through his sweatshirt and entered the building.
He kept his head down as he crossed the empty lobby. His footsteps echoed loudly, and he instinctively began to roll each foot from heel to toe in an attempt to muffle the sound. He stepped onto the elevator and pushed the button for the third floor. When the doors closed he lifted his head for the first time. He pulled back the hood of his sweatshirt, tossed the ball cap aside, and wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. He wrestled off the sweatshirt and dropped it in the corner of the elevator along with the cap.
When the elevator door opened, Pasha looked down the darkened hallway. Halfway down the corridor he saw a single illuminated room and headed directly for it. When he reached the open doorway of the laboratory he saw Jengo Muluneh standing at a table of lab equipment on the far side of the room.
Pasha knocked softly but Jengo still jumped.
“Sorry,” Pasha said. “Things are very quiet this time of night.”
“Yes.” Jengo attempted to regain his composure.
Pasha crossed the room toward him. “It’s very late, my friend, almost morning. What do you tell your wife when you work such late hours?”
“I tell her my research cannot wait.”
“And she believes you?”
“Yes.”
“You are a fortunate man. A Russian wife would think you have taken a lover.”
Jengo said nothing.
“Then your wife does not know what you have been doing here?”
“Of course not.”
“Have you ever told your wife about me?”
“No—as we agreed.”
“We also agreed that we would never meet on campus.”
“We agreed that we must not be seen together. That is why I waited until the building would be empty.”
“A wise precaution. Still, I was surprised to get your message. To meet in your laboratory and at this late hour—is there a concern?”
Jengo hesitated before blurting out, “I cannot do it, Pasha.”
“Do what?”
“Continue with our plan. I wish to stop.”
Pasha smiled at him. “It’s only your nerves, Jengo. ‘Jitters,’ the Americans call it.”
“No. I have given the matter considerable thought.”
“But your part is almost finished, Jengo. You have completed your research—all that remains for you to do is to replicate the fungus in sufficient quantities. Why stop when the work is already done? Why stop when we are so close to our goal?”
“It is no longer my goal. I have changed my mind.”
“Changed your mind about what, my friend? Nothing has changed. The Americans are still converting corn into ethanol, and your countrymen are still starving to death. Have you forgotten?”
“Of course I have not ‘forgotten.’ Please do not insult me.”
“Next year the Americans will produce seven billion gallons of ethanol. Do you know how much corn that will require, Jengo? Almost three billion bushels. Three billion bushels—how many of your people would that feed?”
“I know, Pasha. We have discussed this many times.”
“Then why do you hesitate now?”
“We are not terrorists, Jengo. We are not religious zealots killing women and children in some crowded marketplace. We are scientists—humanitarians—and we are making a carefully calculated attempt to shift American ethanol production away from corn. This toxin—your toxin—will reduce American corn production by almost half. When that happens the Americans will have no corn to use for ethanol. It will take years for them to develop a new corn hybrid that can resist your toxin, and by that time they will have learned to make their ethanol from something else—from prairie grass or wood pulp, perhaps—and once again their land will only be used to grow corn for food.”
“But who are we to do this?”
“We are simply three men, Jengo—too few to influence American economic policy. No one will listen to our opinions. The Americans will not change the way they produce their ethanol simply because we ask them to. We must act, Jengo. We know the right thing to do and we must do it. Search your heart—you know that I am right.”
Jengo shook his head. “No, Pasha. I have made up my mind. I have decided.”
Pasha looked at him. “You made a commitment, Jengo—you must keep it. Even if you have changed your mind, Habib and I have not changed ours.”
“I am sorry.”
“You must replicate the toxin. We have a deadline. Everything you need is at the insectary ready and waiting.”
“No—I want no further part of this.”
“Then you must train Habib to do it for you.”
Jengo’s frustration suddenly turned to anger. “I want no further part of this, Pasha! It was a foolish mistake. I do not feel the same way about this country that I did when I first arrived. I will not replicate the toxin. I do not want this plan to succeed. I have put my wife and daughter at risk, and now I am ashamed of myself.”
Pasha studied Jengo’s face. There was no uncertainty in his expression; the man had made up his mind and he was not going to change it. Pasha considered his options. He could threaten Jengo; he could even threaten his wife and daughter, but that would only fuel the man’s fear and regret, and the minute Pasha walked out the door he would probably call the authorities. There was no way to know what Jengo might do next. I do not want this plan to go through, he had said. Was that a simple wish or an indication of his intentions? Pasha could not afford to take the chance.
He slipped a silver pen from his shirt pocket.
37
Nick stared at the floor tiles as he walked down the corridor at Gardner Hall. Students greeted him as they passed, but their voices didn’t register; he was lost in thought. When he passed the door to Noah’s office he heard a familiar voice call out, “Good morning, Nicholas. Nose to the grindstone already, I see.”
Nick backed up a few steps and poked his head in the doorway. “Hey, Noah. How’s it going?”
“It’s a shame about the incident on campus last night, isn’t it?”
“What incident?”
“You haven’t heard? A graduate student was killed in his laboratory over on Centennial Campus last night.”
“Killed?”
“The authorities are investigating now. Rumor has it that theft was the motive. They have some very expensive equipment over there, you know.”
“What department was this student in?”
“Crop Sciences—plant pathology. His faculty advisor was Dr. Lumpkin. He called this morning and told me the terrible news.”
“What was this student working on? What was his research topic?”
“I don’t know, really. Since Dr. Lumpkin is a fungus specialist, I can only assume—”
Before he could finish the sentence Nick was gone.
Nick pushed through the crowd of students at the end of the hallway until he reached the yellow crime scene tape and the Raleigh police officer whose job it was to keep the students back. Nick held up his campus ID: “I’m Dr. Nick Polchak—I’m faculty.”
“Do you have an office on this floor, Dr. Polchak?”
“No.”
“Sorry—access is restricted to official personnel only.”
“Look, I’m a forensic entomologist.”
“You’re one of the forensic guys?”
“Yes,” Nick lied.
The officer lifted the tape and allowed him through.
Nick walked down the hall to an open doorway where a number of police and campus security personnel were staring into a room.
One of the police officers looked up when he approached. “Can I help you?”
“Dr. Polchak—forensic entomologist.”
“Who sent for a bug guy?”
“Beats me—I didn’t get his name. What have we got here?”
“Graduate student. Some guy named Jengo something-or-other—he’s from Africa. Somebody popped him last night. It looks like a small-caliber bullet to the base of the skull. No exit wound—the tech guys are saying it was probably a .22.”
Nick leaned into the doorway and looked at the room. It was a state-of-the-art laboratory, one of several hi-tech labs the crop science, soil science, and botany departments maintained on Centennial Campus. On the left side of the room a group of forensic technicians dressed in white Tyvek coveralls and latex gloves were collecting evidence. A crime scene photographer recorded each step of the process while a man in a white shirt and tie looked on.
“Is that your detective?”
“Yeah.”
Nick caught a glimpse of the victim—a man with coal-black skin. He was lying faceup in front of a laboratory table. His eyes were halfopen in a glazed stare. It was a look Nick had seen many times before.
“Any sign of a struggle?” Nick asked.
“Doesn’t look like it. There’s lab equipment everywhere, but nothing was broken.”
“Somebody mentioned theft.”
“Yeah—some things are missing.”
“What sort of things?”
“A laptop computer, some minor lab equipment—glassware, containers, things like that.”
Nick looked at him. “None of the big stuff?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“There’s a fortune in equipment in there. Would you kill a guy just to grab a few beakers and flasks?”
“Maybe he was in a hurry. Just a quick smash-and-grab job—take whatever’s handy and run.”
Nick glanced at the opposite end of the hallway where a group of concerned-looking faculty and staff huddled behind a second barrier tape. Nick spotted a familiar face in the group and started toward him.
He flashed his ID at the perimeter officer. “I’m with the forensic team—I need to talk to this man.” He pointed to a paunchy little man with a bad comb-over. The officer lifted the tape and allowed the man through.
“Dr. Lumpkin,” Nick said. “Is your office in this building?”
“Yeah. Can you believe it? Man—we’ve never had anything like this before.”
“I understand you knew the victim.”
“He was one of my grad students. Jengo Muluneh—an Ethiopian. He had a wife and a daughter too—they must be devastated. I especially hate to see this happen to one of our internationals; they already think this is such a violent country.”
“What was he working on?” Nick asked.
“Jengo specialized in plant pathology. He was doing research on the genetic characteristics of a number of fungal diseases.”
“What kind of diseases?”
“Fusarium, Gibberella, Penicillium—diseases that attack cereal crops, specifically corn.”
“He specialized in fungi?”
“It’s very important work. In the seventies there was a fungus called Bipolaris maydis that spread throughout the South and Midwest. The Southern Corn Blight, they called it—the fungus cut corn production in the U.S. by 15 percent.”
“Was he studying that fungus?”
“That and several others. He was researching corn hybrids that have nat
ural resistance to some of the most prevalent fungal diseases. He was very bright—it’s a real loss to the academic community.”
“Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt this guy? Did he seem to have any enemies?”
“Jengo? I can’t imagine that—he was such a gentle soul. He stuck to himself a lot, but a lot of the internationals do. They’re only here for a year or two to complete a degree, and sometimes it’s hard for them to adjust to the culture. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt Jengo—but then, I didn’t know him all that well.”
“You didn’t know your own grad student?”
“You’re a professor—you know how it works. I write a grant proposal, I get funding—and each of my graduate students takes a piece of the pie. But most international graduate students are funded by their own governments so they don’t cut into the budget. To be honest, that’s one of the reasons graduate programs are quick to take them. Jengo was very organized and independent; he didn’t require as much supervision as some of my other grad students, so I didn’t get to know him as well. He just stuck to himself and did his own research.”
“Then he could have been researching something else—something you knew nothing about.”
“Like what?”
“Forget it—just a crazy thought.”
“You seem to have a lot of those.”
“So I’m told. Thanks for the information.”
“Hey—what about that babe?”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, the one at the party—Alena, I think it was. Man, she was hot. Have you seen her lately?”
“As a matter of fact I have.”
“Did she mention me?”
Nick paused. “Come to think of it, she did.”
“By name?”
“You know, she did call you a name—Fungus Boy, I think it was.”
Lumpkin grinned. “I knew she’d remember me—once Bernie Lumpkin gets under their skin, they never recover.”
“Sort of like a fungus.”
“Have you seen my license plate? It says FUN GUY.”