by Dom Testa
I try not to make eye contact. I feel guilty sitting there in my leather chair, eating warm mixed nuts from a crystal bowl and sipping my free cocktail as they struggle to the back with a rowdy child and his ragged little Sponge Bob carry-on bag.
I put on my headphones and gazed out the window, pretending to be mesmerized by the activities of airport workers darting around the tarmac on their muscular vehicles.
Settling back, I thought about the various characters who’d require attention before this case wrapped up. The most obvious, of course, was Jason Deele. It was easy to get too comfortable around him, because outwardly he lulled you to sleep with his effortless smile. Nothing about his demeanor scared me—which is what scared me. A gut feeling told me I’d see the real Deele before too long. And it likely wouldn’t be as pleasant as his smile.
There was Conor Wood, the former military man who now played the part of Deele’s killer-on-a-string. We’d yet to exchange two words with each other but, as with his boss, I felt a day of reckoning was drawing near. It would be painful for one or both of us.
Also on the opposing team lurked the inscrutable Jaclyn Stone. At times approachable and expressive, she could also come across as reticent, cold. From the very beginning my instincts warned me to be on alert with this brilliant scientist, and my conversation with inmate Steffan Parks reinforced that apprehension. He’d tagged her as one of the more threatening members of the Arcetri. I didn’t take that lightly. My brief exposure to the limits of their vengeance was enough for me to take them—and their members—seriously.
Dr. Stone and her patron, Jason Deele, appeared to have their own separate agendas, and had apparently formed an alliance to achieve their individual goals. She wanted to prove something, and he intended to profit from it. It added up to a frightening combination of two volatile and determined personalities.
By the time we were airborne and the flight attendant had dropped off another adult beverage, I was thinking about the people on our side of this battle. There was the dynamic Sarah Eklund and her blustering step-mother, Deputy Secretary Halloran. I could empathize with FDR and Churchill; managing your allies was as much of a task as confronting your enemy. Sometimes even more aggravating.
I had to hope they’d both stop fighting me and provide valuable assistance when the time came.
For the time being the only accomplice I could trust was Agent Fife, and he’d be nowhere in sight if shit hit the fan in Paraguay.
As for this latest unknown element, Agent Gamez? I had no idea. But I was about to find out.
She was waiting for me at the airport in Asunción, the capital city. And she was nothing like I expected.
In her late 50s or early 60s, she was of medium height, short, graying hair, and a hard physique that spoke to either hours in a gym or a rough-and-tumble life on the street.
“Mr. Frank? I’m Ramona Gamez,” she said with a reserved smile. “Welcome to the land of peace and justice.”
“I’ll do my best to honor both.”
Now that the dumb passwords had been exchanged, she led the way to a car. This was certainly not a Jaguar. I tossed my small bag into the back seat of her battered Chevy and climbed into the passenger seat. She jerked the car into gear before I even had my seat belt fastened. She did not use hers.
Once on the road she rolled down her window and lit a cigarette. She offered me the pack. I declined.
“How’s my friend Quanta?” she asked, accelerating and changing lanes without a glance over her shoulder. Her English, spoken in a rough, deep voice, was impeccable. That took me off the hook; the population in Paraguay is more likely to speak a mix of Spanish and Guaraní. The Spanish part I was comfortable with.
“Her usual warm, gregarious self,” I said, rolling down my own window.
Gamez laughed. “She’s a cabrona. I don’t care about her job title or how much money she makes. It doesn’t change a thing.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Oh, a long time.”
Just the vague answer I expected. It would be pointless to ask more about the relationship, and we both knew it. So I changed the subject.
“How much did she tell you about Jason Deele?”
She flicked some ash out the window and turned onto a street toward San Lorenzo, one of the larger suburbs.
“She didn’t have to tell me about Deele.”
The surprise must’ve played all over my face. She grunted a smile.
“Jason Deele has been on our radar, as you Americans say, for almost a year.”
“Has he been misbehaving?”
She shrugged. “Not to be cynical, but in many parts of South America misbehaving is relative. It’s almost how business is done.” She glanced at me. “That’s pretty much why I have a job.”
“Are we talking corruption?”
“Oh, corruption wasn’t invented here. We may have employed it more than you’re used to, but you’ll find corruption in every government in the world. Including yours. For years people have wondered why the citizens of Paraguay don’t do something about it.”
“And? What’s the answer?”
“The answer is that it’s not so easy to change a system that’s entrenched after more than a century. A lot of very rich and very powerful people have built the kind of political and criminal structure you don’t just tear down with a bulldozer. And it’s not all internal. There are powerful outside forces who make it very difficult.”
She looked over at me, the hand holding her cigarette resting near the window.
“This country is not just the geographic center of South America, Mr. Frank. It’s a hub for all of the shitty business going on around us. This city you’re in right now is a strategic base for some nasty people.”
I glanced at the buildings we sped past. “You make it sound hopeless.” Then I looked back at her. “Yet here you are. Somebody must want to fix the system.”
“I think of them as silent partners. A few people high enough in office to pull some strings here and there, funnel some money so it’s not officially accounted for. Enough to fund one more organization to fight back. All very . . . what’s the phrase? Very hush-hush.”
I grinned. “We have a lot in common. What specifically is your job?”
She took a quick drag before flicking the butt out the window. “I’m more involved in the area where corruption intersects with coercion. You understand what I’m saying?”
“I surely do. Paraguay didn’t invent that, either.”
“No. But some have made an art of it. And their coercion sometimes involves body counts.”
“Like Mr. Deele?”
“Like Mr. Deele.”
22
Gamez drove me to a hotel where I checked in, dropped off my bag, then met her in the cafe across the street. A glass filled with dark coffee sat in front of her while another cigarette glowed in an ashtray to her left.
“Would I like that?” I asked, indicating her coffee.
“Probably not,” she said, lifting the cigarette to her mouth.
I ordered one from the server and got down to business.
“Jason Deele was likely behind the death of a government agent in the States. Now you tell me he’s contributed at least one body bag in Paraguay. What’s the story?”
She leaned back in her chair.
“He showed up nine months ago. Followed the standard protocol for registering to do business. Introduced himself and one of his associates to several people in our Ministry of Agriculture and Livestock. Said all the right things, shook some hands—”
“Lined some pockets?”
“No doubt. But nothing outrageous. I’m told he made it clear his focus was clearly on the soybean industry and introducing a new breed that would flourish.”
“Is that welcomed here?” I asked. “I mean, cocky American showing up, offering to show everyone a new way of doing something?”
Gamez made a face that said who cares? “If you’re asking i
f it insulted people, the answer is no. This country already has a thriving soybean trade, but one thing it lacks is a solid base for research and development. Importing the technology doesn’t wound anyone’s pride if it makes a profit.” She took a long drag on her cigarette, then, while exhaling the smoke added, “Again, I’m sure that’s true everywhere. Billions of dollars in an offshore account will buy a lot of salve for hurt feelings.”
The server placed my glass of coffee in front of me. I held it up and took a sniff, which made me wonder who’d boiled the sweaty gym socks and mixed them with coffee beans and turpentine. I soldiered on and took a sip.
“Jesus,” I said, setting it down. “What the hell is that?”
“Private blend from the cafe’s owner,” Gamez said, smiling. “I told you you wouldn’t like it.”
“Would it help if I added cream?”
She shook her head. “That would make it undrinkable.”
“What’s the difference?” I said under my breath. I pushed the glass away. “Tell me about this other person Deele brought with him. Woman?”
“Name is Stone. Scientist of some kind.” She said the word scientist with a hint of disdain.
“Yeah, Jaclyn Stone.”
Gamez nodded and took another drink of her coffee. Either one acquired a taste for it, or her taste buds had withered long ago.
“From my investigation,” she said, “I discovered Stone was able to convince several people that her formula, or whatever it is, could increase their production and ward off the kind of diseases that have wiped out plenty of crops in the past. We’re a landlocked country, which means our transportation costs are higher than nations who have a port. Tell the right people you can increase their output and prevent disease? You’ll get a lot of people on your side right away.”
I studied her face. “A lot of people. But not everyone.”
She nodded once.
“And that’s where death makes an entrance,” I said. “Who’d he knock off?”
“The head of a family controlling one of the larger soybean concerns was strongly opposed to changing anything. Mr. Ruiz fell and hit his head on the side of the pool at his house. He was found floating face down.”
“So it looked like an unfortunate accident.”
“Then his number two vowed to uphold the position of Mr. Ruiz. That gentleman had a tragic car accident.”
“The unluckiest company of the year.”
“And no way to prove anything. Of course, within a week the company signed an agreement with Jason Deele and their plants were in the ground within a month.”
“And thriving.”
Gamez waved a dismissive hand. “I’m not a farmer. I’m not a botanist. I couldn’t tell you if Deele’s product is any better than what’s been growing here for decades.” She picked up her coffee. “But once he had his deal, no one else died.”
Outside an argument broke out between the driver of a car and a bicyclist. We watched their shouting match for a minute. Then I pulled the coffee toward me and made another attempt. It was just as horrible.
This brought a laugh to Gamez. She waved over the server and ordered a regular coffee for me.
“I’ll tell you what has me confused,” she said when we were again alone. “Both Quanta and you have only mentioned soybeans.”
I squinted at her. “Yeah. So?”
“Well, I have an inside connection with one of the conglomerates working with Deele. And my source tells me the soybean crops are just the beginning.”
My heart sank. “What else?”
Gamez gave a half shrug. “Anything else that can be grown.” She paused. When she spoke again, she sounded almost amused. “You didn’t think he’d stop with dominating just one piece of the action, did you?”
An hour later I got back to my room, exhausted from the long travel. Gamez had other business to handle and said she’d let me grab a few hours of sleep before we met again to discuss the best move.
At the moment that move eluded me completely.
It was something we’d feared, even something Sarah Eklund had warned could happen. Jason Deele and Jaclyn Stone wouldn’t be satisfied with the billions they’d make with one crop. If you became the top supplier for almost all of the world’s biggest cash crops—to forge what would ultimately amount to a food monopoly—you’d become not only the wealthiest person on the planet, but the most powerful. People dance to your tune when you control their sustenance.
On one hand it sounded not only implausible, but impossible. Who would let that happen?
And then, lying on my hotel bed, staring at the ceiling, I wondered: Once it snowballed, how could anyone stop it? The only strains of corn, wheat, and soybean able to resist a deadly disease? What was the alternative? Worldwide famine on a level never before seen in history?
Other crucial factors played into it. Jason Deele was young enough to have 20 or 30 years to gather his momentum. He had the funds to get traction in a variety of locations, and, once his system was up and running, it could easily pay for expansion. Worldwide expansion.
There was also the X factor of Stone. She provided not only the know-how to create both the problem and the solution, but was motivated to smash everyone who, in her eyes, had held her down in the past. I didn’t yet know everything about the troubled minds within the secretive Arcetri, but I knew enough to fear the potential power of their bitterly-inspired anger.
First Steffan Parks. This time Jaclyn Stone.
Was there another member, silent at the moment, capable of lashing out in an equally-diabolical way?
This wasn’t going to help me sleep. I had to relax.
The last torturous thought before I managed to drift away was a sharp rebuke for my own naïveté. I’d stood inside one of Stone’s greenhouse labs, had seen row after row of viable crop strains, and yet didn’t immediately recognize that these other varieties would follow the same pattern she’d developed with soy. What a fool I’d been. Did I assume the other species were just hobbies?
After mentally berating myself, I dragged out the tools needed to upload. As exhausted as I was, sleep would have to wait. All of this was much too important to risk losing.
It was late afternoon when I awoke. Any rejuvenation the nap might have produced was lost within a throbbing headache. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I popped three pain pills. It couldn’t be the travel; I’d circled the globe numerous times and always enjoyed it. For a split second I wondered if it was the tar-like coffee I’d sampled with Gamez, but surely I hadn’t ingested enough to cause this reaction.
It was probably something minor, exacerbated by the flight. Technology might allow me to invest into new bodies, but it didn’t coat me with teflon. I got sick as easily as the next person. It irked me nonetheless; I’d always been horribly impatient when it came to illness, but doubly so in the midst of a dangerous assignment.
After a moment’s hesitation, I swallowed a fourth pill.
A text from Poole flashed across my phone’s screen: Got info. Call when convenient.
I opened a diet soda from the room’s mini-bar and, using the encrypted satellite connection with my tablet, placed a video call.
“Got a lab report on the sample I took from Houston?” I asked.
“A preliminary report. They’d like to run it again.”
I frowned. “Okay. Is it not the disease that killed the crops in Iowa?”
“Well, it is and it isn’t. I’ve sent you the initial analysis, but I’ve also sent the report to Sarah Eklund under an FBI cover. The people in our lab suggest you talk with her since this is more her specialty. We have as many questions on this end right now as answers.”
There hadn’t been time for the pills to take effect, and now the middle of my forehead felt like a dagger had pierced it. Poole noticed.
“You okay? You look like you’re in pain.”
“Just a mother of a headache. It’ll pass. Anything else to share?”
“Quanta wanted t
o make sure you were getting along okay with Agent Gamez.”
I rubbed my forehead. “Poole, between you and me, Ramona Gamez is borderline frightening. I don’t know if it’s a lifetime of doing espionage work under a South American regime, or if she’s just a born hellcat. Everything about her is living on the edge.”
Poole was quiet a moment, then said, “But you’re getting along okay?”
Even through the pain I had to laugh. “Yeah. She’s solid. We’ll get along fine. Tell mother not to worry.”
I signed off and opened the file on Q2’s lab results. It was like a foreign language to me, so I placed the next call to Dr. Eklund, this time without video.
“Hello, Agent Swan,” she said. Her voice was neutral.
“Doctor,” I said. “I understand you got a copy of some lab results this afternoon.”
“I did. I just finished looking at them.”
“Well, as funny as this sounds, I need you to translate them for me, if you wouldn’t mind.”
It appeared any goodwill we’d established during our dinner in Houston had been nullified by the way I shut her down at Deele’s presentation. But I couldn’t worry about the perceived slight right now. I’d done what I believed was right; I hoped Eklund would move past it.
“First, may I ask where the sample came from?”
I hesitated. She didn’t need to know this information, but, at the same time, I was asking for her help. I couldn’t have it both ways.
“I lifted a few cc’s from a secure greenhouse lab overseen by Deele and Stone.”
“Lifted. So you stole it.”
“Well . . . I suppose technically I could take it back. If I just borrowed it would that make a difference in your analysis?”
The silence on her end was long enough to make the point that she was over my act. I had to be careful, because Sarah and her beastly step-mother were supposed to be on my side. For the time being I blamed my irritability on the headache.
Her voice had a cold, crisp edge. “What I see in the report is remarkably similar in genetic makeup to the fungus that killed the crops here in Iowa.”