Field Agent
Page 12
We walked into a relatively crisp evening by Houston standards. I knew the humidity would crank up in the next month, but this night was pleasant. The cafe she’d picked out was eight blocks away, and the walk felt good. We made small talk, first about Texas in general, then about Houston, and finally about the area we were in, the Museum District. She told me she’d once attended a conference at Rice University, less than a mile away. That explained her familiarity with the area.
“Well, you called this meeting,” I finally said. “What’s on your mind?”
“Like I said, I probably didn’t get things off to the best start with you. You’re on this case to investigate, and instead of being patient I kept insisting you charge after Jason Deele. I’m sorry about that.”
I waited a few moments before responding, measuring my words. “I can tell how passionate you are about your work. And I don’t blame you for being concerned.”
“Well, I thought having dinner together might give me a chance to slow down and explain how the passion and the concern are connected.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re in Houston?”
“I’m going to a presentation Jason Deele is giving tomorrow.”
I laughed. “You’re kidding. I’m going to that presentation. I didn’t know you were invited.”
She pointed across the street, indicating we should cross.
“He understands I’m a threat to his plan,” she said. “He sent me a message last night, asking if I’d come down and hear him out, one more time. I think he thinks a formal presentation, rather than just an impromptu meeting in my office, will impress me. Sway me, I guess.”
“Apologies if this sounds rude, but you haven’t come across so far as someone who could be swayed on this case.”
She shrugged. “I was this close to telling him to shove his presentation. But then I remembered the old saying about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer.” She paused. “I don’t know who originally said that.”
“Michael Corleone. The Godfather movies. Paraphrasing an old Indian poet, I believe. But pure gangster. Which is interesting. You’ve now reduced your conflict with Mr. Deele to the level of the mob.”
Which immediately reminded me of Vincent Volta, who’d worked so hard in pursuit of the exact opposite effect, trying to elevate his own brand of thuggery to the level of respected businessman.
Seemed nobody was happy staying in their own lane.
“Well,” I added, “just remember, when I see you there tomorrow, you don’t know me. Right?”
“Understood,” she said. “Did you meet Deele yet?”
“I did.”
“I’m curious about your first impression. Do you mind sharing?”
We waited at an intersection for traffic to pass. “He’s almost exactly what I expected, and in some ways that has me concerned.”
She gave me a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”
“I know it sounds odd, but let me see if I can explain. In my business I come across a lot of people who do bad things. I almost always have a dossier on them before I go to work, so I don’t go into a meeting blind. You learn about their past, their connections, their motivations. You think you know almost everything about them. But when you meet them there are always a few things you don’t expect.”
The light turned green and we began walking again.
“And that’s completely natural,” I said. “People have their own quirks, their own peculiarities that aren’t the kind of things you get in a report. I think of it as accessorizing a personality. Make sense?”
Sarah nodded.
“But when I met Jason Deele, he behaved almost entirely the way I expected. Of course, he did a few things that surprised me just because I wasn’t ready for them. But he didn’t display anything I wasn’t briefed on.”
“I still don’t understand why that’s concerning,” she said.
“Well, because to me, at least, it means he’s playing a part. Full tilt. He’s not doing anything, or saying anything, that I couldn’t get through a background report. It’s as if he knows what his file says, and he’s reciting the proper lines to fit that file.”
Sarah seemed to contemplate that. “So he’s not giving you anything.”
“Not a damned thing. He lives behind a facade. And that concerns me because it means he’s extremely clever. And I don’t like going up against clever bad guys. I much prefer they be morons.”
She laughed, a light, pleasant sound that belied the gruff demeanor I’d experienced in our first conversations. “Do you come across many of these morons?”
“Not often enough, but it’s a treat when I do. Makes my job so much easier.”
What I didn’t say—but what certainly crossed my mind—was that I’d lately encountered two of the most intelligent, crafty opponents I’d ever faced. Perhaps I was secretly hoping this case would give me a break, like the college football champions scheduling a game against a Division II school to start the season. A tune-up game; that’s what I’d hoped for after my short sabbatical.
Things rarely were that convenient.
“This is the place,” Sarah said, pointing to the colorful cafe on our left. “Maybe we’ll be lucky and snag a table on the patio.”
We were and we did. After quickly settling on drinks and entrees from the menu touting American fare, we got back down to business.
“All right,” I said, taking a sip from the one beer I’d allow myself. “Tell me more about your plant passion. How did it start?”
She laced her fingers together on the table and leaned forward.
“When I was seven we moved to a new neighborhood. I didn’t know anybody, I was the new kid in school, and I was kinda shy anyway. My mother got tired of me spending all my time outside of school hours just hanging out in my room or in front of the TV. She forced me to go outside and explore. I was pissed. So at first I stayed in our yard, just sitting on the grass.”
“What a rebel,” I said.
“Right. I’m sure my mom saw me through the window and got a good laugh. But after a few minutes I stood up and looked around. There was an alley running behind our house, and on the other side of it I saw an older woman going into this strange shed, made entirely out of glass. I was intrigued.”
I furrowed my brow, then said, “Oh. A greenhouse.”
“I’d never seen one. Didn’t even know they existed. There I was standing on an old tree stump to get a better view over the fence, when she saw me and waved. Then she came to her fence and asked if I’d like to see the inside of the greenhouse.
“Well, my mom would probably be angry that I trusted some stranger, but hell, she’d told me to go explore. And this was another way to rebel, right? So without asking permission I left the yard, crossed the alley, and walked into paradise.”
She took a drink of her white wine. “Her name was Mrs. Krock. At the time she seemed so old to me; looking back now she was probably in her 50s or early 60s. But the sweetest woman in the world. She could tell I was interested in her greenhouse, and when she opened the door I probably gaped.
“To this day I remember every detail. The rows of tables with the most colorful, exotic forms of life I’d ever seen. The hanging plants. The gardening utensils everywhere. She grew flowers, she grew vegetables, she grew mushrooms. The air was warm and thick, but not uncomfortable. And there was this . . . scent. It was nothing I’d ever smelled before. This wonderful mixture of soil and nutrients and love.”
I laughed, and she did, too.
“No, I mean it,” she said. “That’s what it seemed like to me. Like I’d wandered into someone’s complete labor of love. And I think that’s exactly what attracted me to botany: the intimate relationship a grower has with everything blooming under her care. And it’s not like the feelings we have for pets; I think with a dog or cat we love them for their companionship and for their personality.
“But when we grow flowers or
plants or food crops, we’re subconsciously feeling the connection to life itself. Not just the life of the plant, but the life it provides us. The sustenance it gives, from the food it bears all the way down to the oxygen it produces. It’s the plant life on our planet that provides almost everything we need to live.”
I couldn’t help but smile at the way she painted the picture, the way she described it in terms of a love story. But at the same time she was right. We took it for granted, but without the generosity of plant life around the globe the human species wouldn’t even be around. People like Sarah Eklund got it.
“So you made them your life’s work,” I said, prodding her forward.
“It’s almost pitiful,” she said with a guilty smile. “I don’t really even have hobbies, other than running. And I do that outdoors, in nature.”
I took another sip of my beer. “All right. I understand the passion. Now tell me about your concern.”
She studied the wine glass, twisting it between her fingers. A somber look settled over her face.
“Working on my graduate degree I was touched for the first time by the notion of not just producing, but preserving. I began researching the dangers we face around the world, studying the history of catastrophic destruction of food crops. Untold millions of deaths throughout the years, and many of those deaths preventable. Sometimes it’s unavoidable, you know, a natural disaster. But people would be shocked to learn how many times it’s man-made destruction, either through negligence or sabotage.”
“I’m assuming the negligence is from, what? Poor farming skills?”
“Some of it. Also things like toxic waste, irresponsible water management.”
“Tell me about the sabotage,” I said, understanding that this was the reason she’d reached out for help in the first place.
“It goes back thousands of years,” she said. “Ancient armies began a process known as scorched earth.”
“Destroying the crops and fouling water sources, right?”
She nodded. “It’s against the Geneva Convention these days. Doesn’t stop it from happening in isolated incidents.”
The server arrived with our food, and I dove into my burger.
“Are you familiar with the global seed vault in Norway?” Sarah asked.
“No. A seed vault? Literally seeds, like plant seeds?”
“Yes. Individual countries have had them in the past, but those wouldn’t do much good in the event of a crisis in a particular country, either a natural disaster or invaders. So in 2008 a special vault was built into an arctic mountain in Norway. Countries from around the world store the seeds of plants, providing a safe haven against what could be a total loss.
“When I first heard about it I nearly cried,” she said. “A few years ago I was able to visit. For someone like me it was a pilgrimage. And it reinforced my purpose in life: to protect one of the most vital resources we have.” She paused, looking down at her salad. “See? We take this for granted, don’t we?”
I felt like a caveman, my hands wrapped around a burger, dripping juices onto my plate. Hey, at least I had some lettuce and tomato on it.
“Of course you’re right,” I said. “And I didn’t know about the seed vault. That’s very cool.” I set down the burger, wiped my mouth, and reached for the beer. “But let’s tie all of this together with Jason Deele.”
She pushed her salad around the plate for a moment, but I could tell she had no appetite.
“When a drought or a flood damages a nation’s food supply, I’m concerned,” she said. “I’ll do everything I can to help. And although I’m furious to hear about armies poisoning the fields and water sources, I recognize it’s part of our primitive DNA, maybe one of the ugliest parts.
“But if Jason Deele is manipulating the world’s food supply, and in the process destroying millions of acres of life-sustaining nutrition for millions of people—and he’s doing it simply for personal profit?”
She didn’t finish the thought for a long time. Just sat there, holding her fork, looking down at her plate.
Then she turned her gaze back to me.
“In my opinion it makes him one of the most evil people in the world. And one of the most dangerous. If you won’t stop him, I promise you I will. Somehow.”
Dynamic as hell.
16
The instructions gave an address, which brought me to a thoroughly modern office building two miles from my hotel. At the front desk sat a uniformed security man who must’ve pumped iron twice a day. His shirt practically cried out from the strain, and you just knew he intentionally wore them a half-size too small for that very reason.
His name badge said M. Dick. I secretly hoped the M stood for Moby, but, really, what were the chances? Regardless, the man had no doubt turned to physical fitness in order to overcome the trauma of having all of his high school sports jerseys say Dick on the back.
He asked for my ID, checked a list on his screen, and found the mythical Ryan Thomas representing D.M. Cash. I felt he overdid the intense studying of my ID photo, looking back and forth between it and me. When he glanced up for the third time, I opened my eyes wide and gave him my best zombie stare.
He found no humor in it whatsoever, but it brought me immense joy.
Instead of an elevator I was directed to an escalator. Someone would be waiting at the top to check me in.
Let me explain something. I’ve served tours of duty in deserts and jungles, and been face to face with plenty of people out to kill me. I’ve been balls-deep in gun fights, knife fights, and brutal hand-to-hand combat. I even had a leg wound stitched up without pain-killing medication.
And yet none of that ever creeped me out as much as riding an escalator. Can’t explain it. Just one of those things. I lose every thread of a conversation as I climb aboard because it takes all of my concentration. I’m mostly okay for the ride itself, but then tense up again at the end, where I invariably look awkward. I either step too soon and look like an idiot, gliding along with one foot in the air, or I step too late and come close to stumbling. Maybe it’s an inner-ear thing. I don’t know. What I do know is that it’s become a mind game with me now.
Trips to London are fun, I enjoy the people and the lifestyle; but when I’m forced to take the Tube I get decidedly worked up. Many of the stations in the London Underground have ridiculously long, steep escalators, and my anxiety is compounded by the fact they’re generally packed. The only thing worse than falling on your face in public is taking down total strangers with you.
The dread is real and it goes back as far as I can remember. There must be some horrible escalator incident buried deep within my early childhood, a tale that might come screaming out of me under hypnosis. It’s the one embarrassing component I wish would get lost during the process of investment.
No such luck. It follows me around like a shadow from body to body.
This particular escalator was quite long as well, but at least I had it to myself. Approaching the top I inwardly groaned to see my escort waiting for me, hands behind her back, and a headset keeping her updated on the approaching guests. A large Texas smile played across her face. Well, great. Nothing worse than having a witness to my transportation troubles. I smiled back, then turned all my concentration to the dismount.
It didn’t help.
“Whoa, careful,” the woman said with an accent like Dolly Parton.
“That’ll teach me to be drunk before lunch,” I said, one of my go-to comments every time I stumbled. She laughed, but probably wasn’t sure if I was joking or not.
“You’re Mr. Thomas,” she said, handing me a name tag. It wasn’t one of those Hello-My-Name-Is stickers with Ryan Thomas / D.M. Cash scrawled in Sharpie. This puppy was engraved in metal, as if I’d been a valuable employee for years. Oh, the things your company can do when it has billions to play with.
“I am indeed,” I said, pinning the name plate on my sport jacket. Then I glanced at her tag. “Where’s the party, Alma?”
I pulled out my phone and dropped it in the bag. “But Alma, how am I supposed to secretly record everything?”
She flashed the big Texas smile again. “You don’t look like a spy to me.”
“You should’ve seen me a few months ago. You wouldn’t have recognized me.”
I waved goodbye to her and to my phone and walked away.
The room wasn’t large, and didn’t need to be. About thirty chairs were set up, and not the typical hotel banquet type. These were large and cushy. A catering team finished arranging an impressive fruit, appetizer, and beverage station along the side wall. A bartender stood at attention nearby, just in case the guests preferred something more stimulating than a strawberry smoothie.
Some of those guests were already in attendance, standing in a small knot near the front of the room. Two of them threw a brief glance my way, then, having decided I was no one of importance, went back to impressing each other.
There was no sign of Jason Deele or Diana Capaldi.
I passed by the bartender and gave a nod of sympathy that she had to work such a lame—and unprofitable—gig, then helped myself to a glass of cranberry juice at the snack table. I was anxious for something—anything—to happen. On the list of life’s most awkward moments you’d have to include standing alone in a semi-professional setting, waiting for a meeting to begin. I didn’t even have a phone to distract me.
A few minutes later Sarah Eklund walked in.
Her gaze fell on me, she gave a simple nod, then, without acknowledging anyone else in the room, took one of the seats in front. I liked her style; she intended to be right in Deele’s face.
A man and a woman entered, looked around, then made their way to the snack table. After filling small plates with fruit and mixed nuts, they meandered over to me. The man’s name tag read Rob Byzinski / Tepperran Inc. I’d never heard of them.