The Rice Thieves

by William Claypool

  “Let’s be clear,” said the professor. “This is an invasive plant and we should watch how it behaves before we expose our major farms to it.”

  “What kind of observation period would you recommend?”

  “Several crop cycles anyway. It will take time before I am comfortable with this strain, although I cannot give you a precise time, Minister.”

  “How do you feel about this, Mr. Ma?” asked the Minister.

  “Our group at the Plant Protection Division discussed this earlier. We also feel that several crop cycles should pass before we introduce this too widely.”

  ”How long will that take, Mr. Ma?” pressed the Minister.

  “I would estimate at least 18 months before we are comfortable with the new strain.”

  “I see,” said the Minister. The disappointment was heavy in his voice.

  “What are we afraid of here?” Professor Fu quickly chimed in. “If the plant is invasive or just throws out a few satellites, it is still rice. Are we worried that we may grow too much food?”

  “We don’t know what we don’t know, Professor,” said Han.

  “No, we don’t, and we never will,” countered Fu. “In the end, it’s all rice. It’s what our people need.”

  Fu’s last comment sounded angry and the others chose not to add any further remarks.

  The Minister broke the silence. “Gentlemen, do any of you have any further comments for me about this matter?”

  No one offered any additional comments.

  “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your coming today. Dr. Gao will stay to lead a further discussion on the technical issues. This is an important decision for the Ministry, and your input is invaluable. I ask for your written opinions at your earliest convenience. I will take my leave now. Thank you again for your time.”

  The Minister bowed slightly to the guests and said, “Zhang, please come with me.”

  Zhang Wei also bowed to the others and he followed the Minister down the hall, past the Minister’s secretarial staff and into his inner office. Zhang had been in the office once before, when he received his appointment. He admired the office with the large desk, paneled walls, and comfortable sitting area. There was very little he would change when he became Minister, he thought.

  The Minster faced him and gestured to the comfortable chairs flanking the couch. “Sit, please,” he said.

  The Minister waited until Zhang was seated. “What did you think of the meeting?”

  “I would describe it as spirited, honest, and a bit controversial.”

  “Did you hear a consensus opinion?”

  “No, Minister. I did not.”

  “Do you agree with Professor Fu’s worst case scenario—that we might grow too much rice and in areas where it wasn’t planted?”

  “I don’t know. Han and Ma didn’t seem to know what they were anxious about. They didn’t articulate their worst case.”

  “Many people are just afraid of change,” said the Minister.

  Zhang did not respond.

  “These academics have no understanding of the pressure we are under to increase our rice production. Last year’s harvest was down and this year, it looks like it may be worse, particularly along the Yangtze basin. The Hunan farms are not doing much better.”

  The Minister stood and walked over to gaze out the window while he spoke. “I am very worried that the late start for planting will reduce our rice yield this year.”

  Zhang realized his place was to listen and not to speak.

  The Minister continued. “The General Secretary called me last week to ask how much money I thought we would need for rice imports. I hated to give him our estimates. Although he is usually a courteous man, it was a terrible telephone conversation as he ranted about our poor results.”

  The Minister looked out the window overlooking the capital. “We simply have to increase our domestic production.” He looked at Zhang, “Your results in Hunan with this new rice are very encouraging.”

  “Yes, Minister.”

  “I believe the Liu brothers may have given us a wonderful opportunity to care for our people.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have you to thank for making the connection, Zhang. The government will remember your service for helping with this.”

  Zhang felt himself smiling without intending to. “Thank you, Minister.”

  “I have made my decision. I will listen to Professor Fu. We can’t tolerate another year’s poor harvest. I will allow the new strain to be planted extensively on our government farms. It is our only hope for accomplishing the objective in the five-year plan of being self-sufficient in our rice harvest.”

  “Excellent, Minister. I completely agree with your decision.”

  “Yes, Zhang, I believe that fortune is smiling on us and that we have been given a wonderful gift. We cannot waste it.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Franco awoke with a hangover as big as, well, as big as Texas. He and Buddy stayed up late after Rorke and Sloan left. Buddy claimed that 50-year-old scotch didn’t cause hangovers. They decided to test the theory and the issue was settled definitively in the morning. It had been after midnight when Buddy called his driver to take them on a quick tour of the city. Franco was relieved that Buddy didn’t stop to sample any of the nightlife he pointed out, although they did have a few more drinks in the back of the limo while driving.

  Franco slept late, but not late enough for it to be curative. He had an early afternoon flight that he was dreading. With great effort, he managed to drag himself to the airport on time. He tried to sleep on the plane, only achieving success during the last hour of the flight. The brief nap hadn’t helped his headache and he felt only slightly better as he walked off the plane to the concourse.

  Sloan was on the same flight and they shared a cab into the city. Rorke was planning to take a different flight and would meet them in the morning. Sloan seemed to be in a pensive mood and quietly stared out the window as their cab worked its way up the peninsula from San Francisco International to the city. That lack of conversation suited Franco.

  The drive north to the city was easy in the post-rush hour traffic. The convention was in the St. Francis Hotel, across from Union Square. The cab discharged them at the hotel, and Sloan suggested a late evening dinner. Franco wasn’t hungry, but found Sloan’s sudden enthusiasm hard to resist.

  They checked in and left their bags with the bellman. Sloan seemed to know San Francisco well and wanted to walk up Powell Street to a brasserie style restaurant he remembered.

  Although climbing up any hill was not Franco’s preferred activity in his current condition, he agreed. He was relieved that the walk covered only a few blocks.

  The restaurant crowd was winding down from a long day, and there were just a few tables filled with diners when they arrived. The hostess ushered them to a quiet booth and a young waitress, still perky at the end of her shift, distributed menus.

  After a quick glance at the menu, Franco laid it back on the table. Sloan studied his a little longer before asking, “What are you having?”

  “Just soup. My stomach isn’t ready for much else tonight,” said Franco.

  “You had a long night with Buddy?”

  “Yeah,” said Franco, “Much too long.”

  “I thought I saw you looking a little green when I got on the plane.”

  “I’m still green on the inside. I’ll feel better tomorrow. If I don’t, call a doctor or a mortician.”

  “I’m glad it was you who spent the time with Buddy. I can’t be his playmate since I don’t drink. It was generous of you to fill the role. I guess it’s not easy being a billionaire. It’s hard to find friends.”

  “I don’t think Buddy is looking for friendship,” said Franco, taking a drink from the water glass in front of him. “He’s just looking
for an excuse to spend his money.”

  The peppy waitress returned and they ordered. She punctuated each of their orders with a “Good choice” affirmation. When the orders were duly recorded on her order slip, she retreated to the kitchen.

  Franco changed the subject. “How’s your wife doing?”

  Sloan said slowly. “I don’t hear too much from her anymore. After Chicago, things changed between us. The marriage was falling apart even before I started drinking. She blamed me for everything and, truthfully, I think she had a point.”

  Franco asked. “What about your daughter?”

  “I’m a little luckier there,” said Sloan. “She’s in college, and she’s proud I’ve been dry. It’s because of her I make it through each day. I speak with her at least once a week and she e-mails me about three times a week. She’s my little angel.”

  “I’m happy for you that she keeps in touch.”

  “Thanks,” said Sloan. “It’s hard sometimes, and she makes it better. You know, though, it’s still ‘one day at a time,’ and ‘fake it, ‘til you make it,’ and ‘let go, let God.’ I go to as many AA meetings as I can, and pray a lot. I’ll go to an AA meeting here tomorrow. In a few years, they say, it becomes a little easier.”

  “Good luck with it,” said Franco.

  “Pray for me.”

  “I can do that.”

  The waitress returned with their drink orders; both had just asked for water. She served them quickly and left.

  “How long have you known Rorke?” asked Franco.

  After taking a sip of water, Sloan answered, “She came on the scene about nine, ten months ago, about the same time the station noticed the rice seeds were missing.”

  “Did the USDA contact Pauling or whoever she works for?”

  “Not as far as I know. I had always assumed the station chief mentioned it to his boss or it made its way to a report. I don’t know what Pauling monitors for this industrial espionage problem he’s after. I have the impression he’s watching many industries and he’s primarily focused on any technologies going to China. I think he’s had his eyes on the brothers for a while.”

  “Did it ever strike you as a little funny that the brothers would go from stealing tech secrets to stealing seeds?”

  Sloan shrugged. “Money’s money and there would certainly be a market for a new hybrid seed in China. Their scientists have been working with hybrid rice strains for years and haven’t come up with anything like Buddy’s rice.”

  “How well did you know this guy who stole the rice from the Molokai facility, the drowned employee?” asked Franco.

  “Not well at all. I arrived in Hawaii just before he had the accident. They said he was kind of an odd duck, and worked unusual hours. I rarely saw him and never spent any time with him.”

  Franco changed the subject. “Tell me more about our beautiful redheaded leader. What is Sam Rorke like when you really get to know her?”

  Sloan answered, “I guess the first thing to understand is that Sam has a work personality and a non-work personality. Her work personality is what you’ve seen. She’s all business there. When she’s in that mode, if you put her on a scale with one end being maternal and sweet and the other end being a serious ball breaker, she’s way over on the ball breaker side.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m seeing. It sounds like it’s going to be just loads of fun to work with her,” said Franco.

  “Don’t misunderstand me. She’s not unpleasant unless she’s not getting what she wants or people are not doing what she tells them to do. She’s just a very tough professional lady, although she’s enjoyable outside of a work environment.”

  “I doubt that I’ll ever see that side of her,” said Franco.

  “It takes time.” The waitress returned to the table with Franco’s soup and a salad for Sloan.

  They ate for a few minutes before Franco asked, “I know we’re here to brief Buddy’s technical people, and they’re going to tell us about this rice. But what are they doing here in San Francisco?”

  “They’re here as part of a scientific conference on genetically modified plants. It’s specific to grain producers. Obviously, in San Francisco, this conference isn’t going to be very well publicized. As a matter of fact, I doubt that you’ll see it noted even in the lobby of the conference hotel and it certainly won’t be advertised as a conference on genetically modified foods.”

  “What kinds of modifications are being done to these other grains?”

  “Ever since we’ve been growing our food, we’ve been looking for better plant varieties with different characteristics. We’ve had hybrids, or plant cross breeding, for hundreds of years. Plant science is just accelerating this with more advanced techniques of plant gene modification. People don’t like to hear this… they’ve been eating GM foods their entire lives. Their great grandfathers were eating modified foods, too, although ‘hybrids’ didn’t sound as scary. The techniques have changed; the idea is the same.”

  Sloan’s attention went to his salad and Franco stayed lost in his soup. The traffic outside on Powell Street was sparse, and the restaurant was almost empty. Franco was content to maintain the silence, but Sloan started to speak again.

  “You know, Buddy’s rice is really amazing. The fact that it grows fast and is protein enriched is great. His people hit a trifecta with its apparent drought resistance and the way it self-propagates. It actually plants itself.”

  “Yeah, that’s wonderful,” muttered Franco, thinking to himself that he had heard enough about rice in the last few days to last him a lifetime.

  They re-focused on their meals for a few minutes.

  “What time are we seeing these guys tomorrow?” Franco asked.

  “0900.” Then Sloan continued, “You know, I understand that industrial theft is a big deal. I’m not minimizing it, but, damn, there are worse things than trying to feed more people and trying to do it more efficiently. This could be a wonderful thing for the world.”

  “Okay, well, that’s not my worry. It’s not yours either. As far as I know, all we’re asked to do is to determine, if possible, where the seeds went and to confirm who took them.” Franco motioned to the waitress to bring the bill.

  “Well, I’m of two minds about this. On the one hand, I know Rorke and Pauling have to dig down to the bottom of this. Pauling’s concern is that U.S. companies have been robbed blind by the Chinese for years, and it must be stopped. On the other hand, this could be a wonderful tool to feed much of the world far more efficiently than ever before. About half of the world depends on rice for a significant portion of their food needs. It takes them a lot of time and effort to grow it. Making it more abundant, easier to grow, and more tolerant of adverse conditions would be the makings of a Nobel Prize.”

  “Paul, let’s stay focused here,” said Franco. “We have a job to do and saving the world isn’t it. We need to confirm who did this and figure out where they took these plants. After that, the problem is the State Department’s or the USDA’s or however they want to handle it.”

  The waitress returned with the check. Franco read it and left a few bills on the table.

  “Mike, of course I know it’s wrong that American technology was stolen,” Sloan persisted. “But think of the good this could do.”

  “Paul, you’re a caring man. I don’t want to think about food anymore tonight. We can talk again at breakfast. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Rorke, Sloan, and Franco met in the hotel lobby after breakfast. Sloan had arranged the logistics of the meeting at the hotel with Buddy’s scientists.

  “Buddy insisted that we meet his people,” Rorke explained to Franco. “We’re still operating on the strategy that whatever Buddy wants, Buddy gets, so he’ll keep his lawyers out of this as much as possible. We’ll meet his technical people and tell them what we’ve done with their
rice. Most of it is true. Paul already knows these people, and Paul and I have agreed on the script for what we’ll say to them. You just keep your mouth shut and listen, Franco. Do you think you can you manage that?”

  Franco answered coldly, “Yeah, I think I can manage that.”

  “The academic community is smaller than you might think,” Sloan said, changing the subject, trying to soften the mood. “We all pretty much know everyone after a while.”

  They took an elevator to the third floor and made their way down the hall.

  Two men were in the small conference room when they arrived. One was about forty and the other man was in his early thirties.

  Both men treated Sloan like an old friend. After greeting Sloan, the older and larger of the two men—and he was very large, at least six feet five and three hundred pounds—extended an enormous hand to Rorke as she approached him.

  “John Cooper,” said the man in a southern accent, and Rorke responded, introducing herself and shaking his hand. Rorke and Cooper exchanged business cards.

  Franco followed, and also took one of Cooper’s business cards. John Cooper was a Vice-President and the Technical Director of BE Jerome, Inc.

  “I thought Buddy’s middle name was Winston,” said Franco.

  “It is,” said Cooper. “’BE’ stands for biological enhancement. We could call ourselves ‘genetic modifiers of food’ in most parts of Texas outside of Austin, but it probably wouldn’t fly too well much beyond the state line. That’s why it’s ‘BE’ rather than ‘GM’.”

  “Okay, that’s helpful,” said Franco.

  The smaller man waited for Cooper to finish speaking before introducing himself as Andy Tien.

  Rorke took a chair after the introductions were over and the men followed her lead.

  When everyone was seated, Sloan explained to his colleagues, “John was a post-doc in my laboratory a few years ago, and Andy worked in my laboratory on a student research project when he was an undergraduate. It’s a small world in the Ivory Tower.”

  Rorke said politely, “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us. Buddy said it would be a good idea for us to brief you on our progress with your quarantined plants. He thinks that you and our department will be working on the rice project for some time to come and that we needed to speak to you. Buddy also said that you offered to give us an overview of the rice project from your perspective.” She paused for a moment. “Let me tell you what we are doing. I’ll give you the top line information. Paul can elaborate on this later if you have any questions.”