Field Agent

by Dom Testa

  But my eccentric neighbor did have an effect on me. From that point on I never automatically dismissed tales that might, on the surface, seem nuts. Conspiracy theories are sometimes so zany that all you can do is laugh. And yet I’ll at least mull them over for a moment before writing them off completely. Taking into account the law of averages, Ray had to be right once or twice.

  Now, as I sat in a hotel ballroom in Houston, listening to the introduction of a noted scientist, one particular account bubbled up from my recent past. On the surface it was crazy, but I’d become a believer. All it lacked was official verification, and therein lay the problem: verifying the existence of shadowy plots or obscure organizations rarely came with an official stamp.

  If it was true, however, it had just turned this entire assignment on its ear. And, in a flash, it may have validated every one of Sarah Eklund’s fears.

  What I needed to do was talk with someone about it. I glanced at Sarah, but ruled her out. It wasn’t necessarily a security-clearance issue, but I couldn’t rope a civilian into it, no matter how personally invested she might be.

  Fife. That’s who I needed to share this with, to see if he agreed with my assessment. I trusted the combination Q2-FBI agent.

  And there was one other person who might hold valuable information.

  To have that talk would require visiting a federal prison.

  I reached back down for the whiskey, which I decided I wanted after all.

  Jaclyn Stone wasn’t the greatest speaker, certainly not on the level of Jason Deele, but the stunning visual accompaniment made up for her shortcomings. They’d even invested in professional lighting to bathe her in a warm, soft halo that stood in fine contrast to the bright, dazzling display on the screens.

  The key points of her thirty-minute presentation could be condensed into a relatively-short summation. But the whole purpose of the meeting was to engage the hearts and minds of people with very deep pockets. These were hearts and minds used to being wooed; they’d built up a wall of skepticism that a traditional PowerPoint display could never assail.

  What the people in the seats most wanted to see and hear was that their money would finance an operation guaranteed to return the investment many times over.

  Stone began her talk by laying out a brief history of the soybean, from its domestication in ancient China to its spread around the world, and to its eventual explosion as a top export. Videos showed a few graphs to drive home her data, but mostly concentrated on the people involved in the cultivating and harvesting of the crops.

  She spent several minutes exploring the connection between science and soybeans, tracing the plant’s earliest breeding all the way forward to the modern laboratory. Genetically-modified versions helped catapult the product into one of the world’s most valuable commodities. By the end of that portion of her talk Stone had pretty well established not only the history of soy’s market value, but had clearly defined what the future of the market looked like.

  And it was sizable. I knew the numbers were big, but her estimates for future growth were eye-popping.

  This is where she paused, as if letting the numbers settle in the minds of the audience. When she spoke again, her tone—and the images flashing behind her—were considerably more grim.

  Pictures of wilted crops, dying fields, and destitute farms. They were like modern images inspired by scenes from the Great Depression of the 1930s.

  I saw the silhouette of Sarah Eklund in the row in front of me. She shook her head, agitated by the scare tactics, I was sure.

  “So what’s the answer?” Jaclyn Stone asked. “You might say we need better forms of pest control. Or we need better ways of managing our water tables. Or we need updated methods of crop management. And all of that is true. Those things can help.”

  She stepped to the side of the lectern, removing the microphone from its stand and carrying it with her. It seemed like a well-rehearsed stage move.

  “But the truth is, we need much more. Because no matter how we try to predict what type of parasite might do harm, something could easily slip past us. And as you’ve seen, the fallout would be utterly disastrous. Supplies for livestock could vanish, and what would that do for the overall food market? Supplies for fuel oil could dry up, and I think you know what that means for markets globally. When food and natural resources become scarce, desperate people have been known to do desperate things.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She was predicting global chaos. And she wasn’t through.

  “No. The answer doesn’t lie in simply trying to swat flies. The answer is to genetically stay ahead of the problem, not to react after it happens. Science does have the capability to modify the way our crops are produced, engineering the growth process itself to do two things.”

  She held up a finger for each of these.

  “One, to create a design impervious to the natural diseases that could inflict the worst possible damage on this incredibly valuable commodity. And two, to build into that product a defense against a much different risk, one that doesn’t come from insects or fungus.” She paused, a look of concern on her face. “I’m talking about risks from the human species itself, from our blatant disregard for protecting our natural environment. I’m talking about designing a new, modern form of soy—and perhaps other species as well—able to withstand anything nature and the human species can throw at it.”

  The room was silent, sobered by the weight of the presentation.

  Then Stone moved back over to the lectern. And she smiled.

  “Fortunately, we’ve thought ahead. And our new, fortified soybean is here.”

  I noted the subtle use of the word our, creating a subliminal sense of family within the room.

  On both screens simultaneously, a single image of a soybean plant, basking in sunshine, swaying gently in a breeze. The camera pulled back to reveal row after row of the healthy pods, and a farmer, walking through the field, caressing the plants as he passed by.

  The view pulled up and away, until the blur of green dissolved into a scene from a sparkling laboratory, with a woman in her spotless lab coat smiling into the camera. That image, in turn, dissolved again, leaving the company logo.

  There was a short stretch of silence before a smattering of applause rippled through the room. I looked around to see if I could read the expressions on the guests, and they did indeed seem impressed, murmuring to each other and nodding toward the screen.

  When I turned back around I caught a glimpse of Sarah Eklund, sitting still, arms crossed in front of her. Staring toward Jason Deele as he walked toward Jaclyn Stone, grinning and applauding. After warmly shaking her hand, then pulling her in for a quick hug, he announced to the crowd that he and Dr. Stone would join them in the foyer to personally answer any and all questions.

  I glanced down. My drink was empty.

  The guests stood and made their way to the side of the room. When the seats were about empty I leaned forward and tapped on Sarah’s shoulder.

  “Listen, I need you to do me a big favor,” I said when she turned around. “I need you to graciously thank them for the presentation, but tell them an emergency has come up and you must run.”

  Her face contorted into a mixture of disbelief and anger. “What? I came all the way here—”

  “Yes,” I said, glancing around. “You did. And I need you to leave without stirring up anything right now.”

  She scoffed. “I’m sorry, but you don’t get to order me around.”

  I sighed. “Dr. Eklund. My job is to get to the bottom of this. It’s a job you requested. The best way you can help right now is to not put Jason Deele on alert in any way. It could compromise what I have to do.”

  Now she looked over my shoulder at the assembled group of people. “So are you saying you finally believe me?”

  “I believe something is very wrong. What it is, I can’t say for sure. But it’s possible it’s connected to something much bigger than what you might think. So I
need to ask you, respectfully, to let me do my job.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I’m supposed to sit here and listen to their bullshit, then just smile and walk away?”

  “That would help me more than you know.”

  She glared at me. Then, without a word, she grabbed her bag, stood, and walked down the aisle. A moment later she bypassed the swarm of people gathered in the lobby, and left.

  I wandered through the double doors in time to see her disappear down the escalator without a look back.

  Just outside the ballroom, Jason Deele and Jaclyn Stone stood side by side, greeting the attendees, thanking them, and answering as many questions as they could, given the setting and time constraints. I caught sight of Conor Wood nearby, as well as the two other goons I’d seen at the airport. Everyone was calm and unobtrusive, like Secret Service agents quietly keeping an eye on things.

  A few feet away, Diana Capaldi also watched her boss carefully, a digital planner in her hand. At a slight nod from him, she’d intercept the people he’d just spoken with and arrange a follow-up discussion. Those who weren’t worthy of the nod were simply thanked and handed an expensive packet of information.

  During his superstar days in high tech Deele had plenty of experience in soliciting investors. He’d no doubt learned how to size up how serious someone might be in less than a minute. Time was one of the most valuable commodities, and couldn’t be wasted on fringe believers.

  When the last of the potential investors had finished their audition, I sauntered up to Deele.

  He smiled and I anticipated his signature clap on the shoulder. When it didn’t come I wondered if I’d somehow lost favor.

  But then he said exactly what I’d wanted to hear.

  “I won’t ask what you thought of the presentation, Mr. Thomas. You were dazzled, of course.”

  “You spent a lot to give me that reaction,” I said. “And it succeeded.”

  “Good.” Now I got the shoulder slap. “Rather than stand here and gab about it, what would you say to having dinner at my home with Dr. Stone and me? Unless you’ve made other plans.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  Oh shit, now I sounded like Byzinski.

  “Excellent. Why don’t we say seven o’clock. Diana will make sure you have the address. Now I’ve got to run. See you tonight.”

  I thanked him, then turned to compliment Stone on her presentation.

  She was already walking away without a word.

  18

  Three o’clock found me in Hermann Park near my hotel. I had time for a nice sweat before needing to shower and change for dinner. Running felt good, and this particular body handled it well.

  And that’s not a given. There are times I’ve inhabited bodies that looked to be in great shape, but you never really found out until you took them for a test ride. Or test run.

  In the early days I made a typical rookie mistake. I obsessed over getting each new body into the condition I’d been used to. If it couldn’t handle the seven-minute-mile pace I expected for a 10k, I’d work my ass off until it could.

  That is, until two things dawned on me. One, every body was simply built differently, and to expect Body A to match the abilities of Body B was foolish. Some people are born with naturally-adept athletic forms, and some definitely aren’t. Sure, with enough training I could get it close.

  But that led to the second thing: Why torture myself when the expiration date might be rapidly approaching? Get myself into badass shape, only to be offed the next day? What a waste.

  I eventually came to the conclusion that the bodies Q2 selected were generally in good condition, and any maintenance I applied to them could be nominal.

  As someone once put it: Nobody washes a rental car.

  These days I ran because I enjoyed it, and because it helped me think. On this particular day my brain had absorbed a revelation or two along with a pretty strong hypothesis. I needed time to process all the thoughts cascading through my head. It was the hypothesis that worried me the most. I was counting on dinner to help me determine whether or not it was worthy of such concern.

  If things were still vague after tonight, I’d likely be on a plane tomorrow. There was one person, a thousand miles away, who could be helpful. Hostile, I’m sure, but helpful.

  At the two-mile mark I felt a familiar ache in my right heel. This convict either had lousy joints or had jacked up his foot at some point. I slowed to a walk for the next half-mile, watching parents and their kids streaming out of the Houston Zoo.

  I contemplated how to handle the icy Dr. Stone.

  If I was walking into the lion’s den, it was one of the swankiest dens I’d ever seen.

  Deele’s temporary residence in Houston was a gated estate built with old money. It loomed large over its neighbors; my quick estimation from the outside was about 20,000 square feet. I tried to imagine what the air conditioning bill was like in August. Of course, if you bought a home like this you didn’t fret over piddling things like utility bills.

  A valet service had been engaged for the evening, so it was clear I wasn’t special enough to rate a private dinner with Deele and Stone. That was a little deflating, as I’d hoped to monopolize their time.

  It turned out, however, to be a small dinner party. Jason and Jaclyn were the star hosts, while I was one of seven guests deemed important enough for the private affair. Not surprisingly, Byzinski had not made the cut. I did not grieve.

  For a moment I worried that my simple sport coat without a tie would be slumming it, but fortunately the host was even more casual. Deele welcomed everyone in dress jeans and a T-shirt. How very start-up-ish.

  During the cocktail portion of the evening Jaclyn was caught up in a lengthy conversation with another guest, a man named Abbott. At first I thought he was pumping her for trade secrets; then I realized the horndog was hitting on her.

  Deele took me and three other guests on a quick tour of the estate, showing off the home theater, the library, the indoor/outdoor pool, and the basketball court. He slapped my shoulder, of course, and told me I’d have to stop by sometime and play a game of Horse.

  It was apparent why Deele had rented this particular home. Although huge, the interior updates were contemporary and comfortable, eschewing the usual stuffiness associated with mansions. It had a lived-in feel, which I appreciated, rather than a museum vibe.

  When I buy my $20 million home I’ll do it the same way.

  “Is this your office?” I asked outside a room with a modern desk and several bookshelves. Large windows revealed the soft mood lighting surrounding the pool area out back.

  “Oh, I spend a few minutes in there,” he said, scowling. “I’m not much of an office guy. I probably get way more done in the back of a car than I ever do in there.”

  I held up a business card. “You don’t want to carry this around. I’ll plop it on your desk.” He opened his mouth to object, but I’d already scampered into the room. I was back in the hallway in seconds, but he looked concerned I might’ve seen something. I changed the subject and we moved on with the tour.

  It was a long shot and I knew it. But it also never hurt to try. The business card was a goofy little gadget we called the series-8. Inside its thick stock was a listening device that allowed us to snoop. They worked fine, but the vast majority didn’t survive long. No business card ever did.

  When dinner was announced, the group moved into an impressive dining room. The table sat up to 18, so we clustered near one end. I was surprised when Jaclyn Stone took a seat beside Deele and gestured that I should sit across from her. I nodded thanks and settled in.

  As expected, each guest was asked to share a bit about themselves. It was standard dinner-party practice, engineered to spark lively conversation.

  When my turn rolled around, I was ready.

  “I was the guy who was bored throughout high school and college. Not because I thought I already knew it all, but because I was ready to do grown-up work. The probl
em was, every job for people that age assumes you’re an idiot. I jumped around from position to position, looking for a business—or a boss—who did things a little differently.”

  “Did you find one?” Deele asked.

  “Nope,” I said right away, which elicited some laughter around the table. “At 21 I got the usual stern talking-to from my dad, worried I’d never connect with anything. But I tried explaining to him: It’s not the job itself I care about; it’s how the company does the job. I’ve always been drawn to people and organizations finding new ways of doing traditional things.”

  I made brief eye contact with Stone, then went on.

  “No offense, Jason, but it’s not actually start-ups that interest me. I think too often they’re focused on entirely new markets, sometimes pushing products nobody’s really looking for. What gets me hot and bothered are the disruptors in old sectors.” Now I looked directly at Deele. “And not to sound like a total suck-up, but that’s what has me interested in what you’re doing. Farming isn’t new. How we farm, though? Using more high-tech than ever? Show me new ways to do it and I’ll be interested enough to put money behind it. And that’s why I’m in Houston.”

  I may have been overplaying my hand, but I didn’t care. And I certainly didn’t give a rat’s ass what the other stiffs around the table thought. I needed Deele’s attention, and Jaclyn’s. More importantly, I needed to draw her out.

  Poole had come through again, of course. When I’d stepped out of the shower this afternoon she’d had a dossier on the scientist waiting for me. It was time now to see how much of it she confirmed, and how much she glossed over.

  “So Jaclyn,” I said. “I understand you did your undergrad work not far from here, at A&M. Are you originally from Texas?”

  “No,” she said. “I grew up on the West Coast. I had no intention of doing this kind of work when I was young. I was naive, a computer nerd, and didn’t even realize the potential of high-tech in agriculture. It was a high school science teacher who opened my eyes.”