Field Agent

by Dom Testa

  For the time being I chose B, and pulled the file over to my side of the table.

  “This is another case that, on the surface, seems like something local law enforcement could handle. And they are. But there’s a growing feeling that something bigger is underneath it all. And, since it involves an industry worth tens of billions of dollars and hundreds of thousands of farmers, we’re starting an investigation.”

  “Farmers?”

  “Yes.”

  Something clicked, reminding me of a conversation I’d had when I was laid up in the hospital, recuperating from the gunshot.

  “This doesn’t happen to involve a certain FBI agent we both know, does it?”

  Quanta raised an eyebrow. “Why, Swan, you surprise me again. You’ve spoken with Agent Fife about this already?”

  I shook my head. “No. Well, not really. He just mentioned a few weeks ago that he’d be looking into a case involving crops. Wheat, maybe?”

  “Soybeans.”

  “Oh.” I paused. “This is really a case for Q2? A problem with soybean farmers?

  I began to wonder if this was Quanta’s way of relegating me. To ostensibly allow me back into the program, but then to send me out on some silly case a sheriff’s department out in the sticks could probably handle.

  Her response was an exasperated sigh, as if six weeks hadn’t been nearly enough of a break for her.

  “All right,” I said, holding up my hands in a make-peace gesture. “So am I getting details from you or from Fife?”

  “Agent Fife will brief you. This—” She pointed to the file. “—will provide you at least some baseline data so Fife doesn’t have to do too much schooling.”

  I took a quick peek inside the folder. The first page was a bio, laid out in standard Q2 detail, including a large color photo. It was a woman, 38 years old, short blonde hair, and only the hint of a smile. Typical for a professional headshot: cordial and approachable, but businesslike. The name below the photo said Dr. Sarah Eklund. Undergrad degree from the University of Wisconsin, Masters and Ph.D. from Cal-Berkeley, specialist in plant physiology and bioagricultural sciences. Interests: Yoga, crochet, and target shooting.

  I began singing the Sesame Street song in my head: One of these things is not like the other.

  “Is she a good guy or a bad guy?” I asked.

  “She contacted Fife,” Quanta said. “Of course, that doesn’t prove anything. You may have to make that determination when you get out there.”

  I closed the folder. “And where am I going on this latest field trip?”

  “Why, the Heartland, of course.”

  “Of course. And although I’m sure I know the answer, I have to ask: Is everything up and running smoothly in the lab?”

  “It is.”

  The lab was the basement laboratory at Q2 headquarters in Washington. It’s where I ended up when I was invested into a new body. It had been ransacked two months earlier, which precipitated my last adventure. They’d had plenty of time to get everything back in working order, but it didn’t hurt to check.

  I waited a few moments, then added, “Is there anything else we’re talking about today, or is this the extent of our meeting?”

  “I have another meeting to attend,” she said. “Let’s not discuss anything else for the time being. I’m sure we’d both like for you to get back up to speed and see how you feel about everything before we deconstruct the past. Would you agree?”

  On some level I didn’t agree, wondering if we needed a real clear-the-air confrontation. But, after a slight pause, I simply gave a curt nod. It would have to wait.

  “Since you haven’t uploaded in a while, you should probably do that tonight when you land in Iowa,” Quanta said. “I’ll make sure you have a complete set of digital files before you board the plane. I’ll be in touch.”

  “This might’ve been our quickest meeting ever,” I said, picking up the glass with the pink contents. “I didn’t even get to find out what this was.”

  She laced her fingers. “It’s not alcoholic, if that’s what you were hoping for.”

  I took a sip, then another. “Goddamn, that’s good.” Then I set the glass down and stood up. “When does Poole have me flying out?”

  The answer was 3:15. Just enough time to get home, pack a small bag, and head out. I left a note for Christina, but it wouldn’t be a surprise for her. She’d kissed me goodbye in the morning, confident I’d be gone in a matter of hours. I assumed she’d be happy to know I was out of the house and back on the job. For all I knew she’d bribed Quanta to take me back by offering home delivery of five-star meals.

  I called Poole on the drive to Dulles.

  “Did you miss me?” I asked.

  “Well, um,” she said, and I could visualize her trying to assemble the proper response.

  “The answer is yes, you missed me terribly,” I said. “Sorry I didn’t stop by and see you. Time sort of got away from me while I sat on the couch watching TV. You know how that goes.” Then I added: “Actually, you probably don’t. Poole, do you watch TV?”

  “Documentaries,” she said, in her usual dry tone. Poole was Quanta’s assistant, working out of the drab, unremarkable building that housed Q2 headquarters. She was also officially the most humorless person I’d ever met, which only inspired me to do everything possible to ignite the fun torch. Try as I might, Poole never took the bait.

  But, as much as I chafed over her dry, stoic demeanor, there was nothing I ever questioned professionally. Poole was a machine. The next time she let something fall through the cracks would be the first time. Put off initially by her complete lack of mirth, I quickly grew to appreciate the support she provided. She genuinely cared about the job.

  “Listen,” I said, “What are the chances of getting a bump to first class for this flight to Des Moines?”

  “The flight you’re on doesn’t have first class.”

  “So you’re saying that’s zero chance.”

  “Um, correct.”

  “What about rental car? How about another Mercedes or Jag?”

  “Also not available.”

  “Damn, Poole,” I said. “You don’t want me to have any fun in Iowa, do you? Or is that redundant?”

  She paused. “I’m from Iowa.”

  I actually laughed. “No shit. What’s a girl from Iowa doing working for a spy organization in the moral-decay capital of the country? Sick of corn, right? Miles and miles of it. Longed for the glamorous life of politics and sleaze.”

  She didn’t answer, and again I imagined her wondering how to respond.

  I saved her the trouble. “Poole, I’m kidding. I’d have said the same thing if you were from Oregon. Well, except for the corn part. Truth is, everyone I’ve ever met from Iowa is honest and genuine. Friendly. Salt of the Earth. Oddly attracted to heavy farm machinery. But friendly.”

  Her head must’ve been spinning, so I kept going.

  “Listen, if you get a chance, reach out to Agent Fife and let him know I’ll meet him at the hotel rather than the airport. And tell him the first round’s on him. No, the first two rounds.”

  “I’ll reach out to him as soon as we hang up.”

  “I’ll check in with you when I get to the hotel.”

  It was dark when I landed. While I’d secretly wished for a Mustang or something similar if no Mercedes was available, I understood the practicality of the mid-size SUV Poole had me in. I’m sure it made the most sense out in farm country.

  I pulled away from the airport in Des Moines, whose marketing posters had greeted me with the slogan Iowa to Anywhere. The truth was, I’d spent some time during my childhood not far from this spot, and as a kid I’d have chosen Anywhere. Funny how when you’re that age you can’t wait to get out into the world. Then you realize the world has no interest in your dreams, and the small town you’d so desperately tried to escape begins looking better and better. I’d done my share of daydreaming in the last few years about leaving the big city and retreating
back into the comfort of smaller-town life. I just couldn’t be sure if that was the real me talking, or just the part terrified of what the big city was doing to me.

  It didn’t take long to reach the mid-level hotel. The clerk checked me in and told me a Mr. Fife had left a message to meet him at the sports bar across the street. That’s exactly what I did after dropping my bag in the room. Fife was at a hightop, watching a Cubs game.

  “Welcome to America’s bread basket,” he said, shaking my hand.

  “I thought that was Kansas.”

  He shrugged. “Takes more than one state to feed us.”

  “Speaking of which.” I picked up the skinny bar menu, looking for something filling and unhealthy. I wasn’t disappointed. When the server stopped by I ordered a club sandwich, fries, and a beer. Fife asked for more of his scotch.

  “You know,” he said when the server walked away, “when I mentioned this crop thing in your hospital room I never really expected to see you out here.”

  “I never really expected to be doing anything for Q2 again.”

  Fife nodded, because he understood. A career law enforcement man, he’d worked on the second floor at Q2 before transferring to the FBI. There he acted almost as a secret liaison between the two organizations, although his fellow agents didn’t know that. In fact, hardly anyone knew Q2 even existed. Having someone on the inside with the FBI, the CIA, Homeland Security, and others helped us get things done without messy involvement from nosy, inept politicians. Fife was our plant inside the J. Edgar Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “I’ll bet you were bored off your ass sitting at home.”

  “Not nearly as much as you think.”

  “Then what made you come back?”

  “A farmers market.”

  He had a good laugh as I told him most of the details—leaving out any mention of Christina. She was still a secret to everyone except Quanta.

  “I might be too tired to glean much tonight,” I said. “But at least give me a snapshot of what’s going on here in Iowa.”

  “How much do you know about the soybean industry?”

  “Before I got on the plane? Hardly anything. I mean, I like edamame, if that counts. By the time I landed here, though, I could write a term paper. More than I ever thought I’d learn about it, and I packed it all into three hours of travel. We can talk more about the industry tomorrow. I guess what I’m curious about is why the FBI—and now Q2—is out here in the cornfields.”

  “We’re here because a few weeks ago someone expressed concern about a group of people who came out of nowhere and suddenly became active in the business side of soy farming. Extremely active.”

  The server showed up with my beer and Fife’s scotch. We touched glasses, took a drink, and then I said, “And the person who expressed concern is Dr. Eklund, I’m assuming. What’s she like?”

  “Dynamic as hell.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I made a mistake by thinking she was only mildly concerned about what was going on. At first I didn’t, uh, give it my full attention, you might say.”

  “Because it’s a crop doctor out in the sticks,” I said. “Not exactly ground zero for drug cartel murders or New York mob hits, right?”

  “Well, two things taught me right away to not take her problem lightly.”

  I laughed. “One, she chewed your ass.”

  “That she did. I told you: dynamic.”

  I took another pull from my beer. “What was the other thing?”

  “A New York mob hit.”

  3

  It’s naive to believe some areas of the country have all the crime, while other places are populated exclusively by angels. No matter where you go from coast to coast, when hundreds of millions of citizens are bumping into each other you’re bound to have trouble. I don’t care if it’s the mean streets of New York or Chicago, or a suburb of Kalamazoo.

  Or, it would seem, the farms of Iowa.

  I went from drowsy to fully alert in an instant. Fife knew he had my attention and smiled.

  “Yeah,” he said. “We’ll sit down tomorrow and go over the file, but here are the rough details. Man by the name of David Culbertson, 56 years old, a Criminal Investigator with the USDA, found dead 12 miles north of here. Two shots to the side of the head, execution style. His hands were tied behind his back with his own belt.”

  “Wait. Somebody executed an investigator from the USDA? As in the Department of Agriculture?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Not usually a department that handles violent crimes.”

  “Not usually, no.”

  I took another drink and eyed a couple of tough-looking farmhands I’d seen lumber up in a ridiculously-large and loud F-350. They leered at the young hostess as they passed by on their way to the bar. The bartender greeted them by name and tossed a couple of cardboard coasters in front of them. The decibel level in the place increased substantially.

  “And this happened after you arrived?” I asked. “Then why were you here in the first place? You said you were talking to Dr. Eklund about people who were interested in the soybean industry. So I can see why the USDA was looking into it. But an FBI investigation?”

  “A couple of reasons. The first has to do with the original allegation—the one I’d just heard about when I visited you in the hospital—which involves potential terrorism. We’ll always look into those charges.”

  “But what was the target? I mean, no offense to the good people of Iowa, but this isn’t exactly the first place that springs to mind when you think terrorist activities. Somebody threatening to bomb a silo?”

  Fife gave me a wry smile. “Much more destruction than a single bomb. Instead of one silo, Dr. Eklund is afraid the target will be the entire soybean crop of the United States.”

  “Huh,” was all I could think to say. “What’s the other reason?”

  “Our dynamic doctor is also well-connected. When you know someone in high places, you tend to get heard that much sooner.”

  “Who’s her connection?” I asked.

  “Her step-mother is Janet Halloran, and before you say Who’s that? I’ll tell you. She’s the Deputy Secretary of Agriculture.”

  “Deputy Secretary? And that’s high enough up to rattle cages?”

  “She’s still nominated by the President and approved by the Senate, so yeah, that’s powerful enough to get some action from the people who rattle my cage. Halloran is also a former CEO of the American Soybean Association, so all of this is near and dear to her heart.”

  “So is this a legit concern,” I asked, “or just a government agency playing politics and jumping when a politician speaks?”

  We both looked up as the two loudmouths and the rest of the bar whooped at something going on in the Cubs game. The screen was too far away for me to see the score, but the fans at Wrigley Field seemed quite happy.

  Fife turned back to me. “I was skeptical until Culbertson was murdered. And that could very easily be unconnected to Dr. Eklund’s issue. I just started looking into that. Didn’t know about his death until yesterday. But Eklund left me two messages this afternoon. She has no doubt they’re connected.”

  I ran my finger down the pint glass of beer, sketching lines in the condensation. It was such an odd combination of factors, and in such an out-of-the-way location. First the USDA got involved, then the FBI. But now Q2. When a problem escalated through the alphabet soup of government agencies it meant more and more people were growing concerned, and the number of asses needing protective coverage grew exponentially. Landing in the lap of my particular department meant someone needed to get slapped down, and hard.

  My sandwich arrived and I spun the plate so Fife could access the fries.

  “All right. When do I meet her?”

  “Tomorrow morning at seven-thirty.”

  Through a mouthful of club sandwich I moaned. “Seven-thirty? Why the hell so earl
y? I’ve been traveling all day.”

  Fife put two fries into his mouth. “Quit your bitchin’. I talked her out of seven.”

  My hotel room was spartan, pretty much what I lived in during assignments. Five-star hotels and fancy suites were rare, reserved for the cases where I played the part of a high-roller.

  That was not the case in Iowa. I was just Eric Swan, government agent on a budget.

  Before crashing I left a voice mail for Christina. After putting up with my continual presence for weeks, she likely was relishing the alone time. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had her phone off, with strawberries and champagne sitting on the edge of a hot, soapy tub.

  Christina was carrying the child of a co-worker, acting as a surrogate for Antonio and his wife, Marissa. Life at this point hadn’t changed much for her, but the time was approaching when I’d need to be back at the home front a little more regularly than my duties usually allowed. I wasn’t sure how much help I’d be, but we’d find out when the time came. For now I was back in the field and Christina was enjoying the high-rise life.

  I was tired and desperately wanting some sleep, but had promised Quanta I’d upload. From my small bag I gathered the usual tools, conveniently disguised as deodorant and a basic can of shaving cream. Inside, however, were the sort of electronics that allowed me to connect through wifi with the basement computers at Q2 headquarters.

  There was also a pill, often called an adapter. The drug basically calmed my mind and granted my neural circuits a clear pathway for digitizing thoughts and memories into a language that could be stored and later downloaded. Sort of widened the information superhighway. The actual science eluded me, but it worked.

  My essence, condensed in this manner, lived in a special hard drive until I was killed, either accidentally or in the line of duty. Then, a volunteer body was rolled out and prepared to accept a download of my mind, a procedure we called investment.

  As for where the bodies came from, well, that was another component of the Q2 investment program that either straddled the ethical line or stepped way over it, depending on your point of view. In a nutshell, the bodies came from felons serving life sentences without parole, men who did indeed volunteer to donate their bodies to science in exchange for monetarily setting up their families for life. All with no questions asked. Their own minds were uploaded and stored, leaving a hollow shell that I—or any other Q2 agent—could then inhabit.