The Beekeeper's Secret

by Sally Fernandez

  “The package will arrive in the next seventy-two hours. Are all of you clear as to the next phase?” Hastily, Hal raised his index finger to his lips. “Show of hands only!” he requested, encouraging a minimum of conversation.

  All hands rose.

  “In three days, we convene at this location.” Hal held up a stack of business cards. “Safe travels,” he offered, as he waited for the members to approach.

  Each member of the bogus committee stood up. One by one, they lined up to receive a handshake, along with a business card that provided essential instructions for their next meeting. Retreating at a hare’s pace, they left the chamber and the building before speaking a word. Once safely outside, they paid their respects with warmer gestures before departing to their various home states.

  Chapter 3

  The Ears of The Consortium

  The Consortium’s elusive director, always shrouded in secrecy, relied on a middleman to maintain his arm’s length from the muck. For the past several years, Senator Erog had proved to be a viable go-between, but his boundless treachery brought his life to an abrupt end. In retrospect, the director never should have selected one of the nation’s legislators. They always had a skeleton hidden away in an undisclosed closet that made them more vulnerable. Never did the director expect Erog’s skeleton to break loose, forcing him to take his own life. But the director’s mouthpiece was like a planarian; a flatworm that can regrow its head. Soon after, the Consortium also reared a new head to replace Erog. This time around, the director reached beyond elected officials and selected one of the most gifted operators from the world of wheelers and dealers—Justin Slater was the perfect intermediary, a gifted lobbyist in the thick of Big PhRMA, who had everything to gain and would be essential to pushing their agenda forward.

  In 2017, the Pharmaceutical Research and Manufacturers of America, along with the giant pharmaceutical companies, comprised an industry that spent $209,395,967, supporting 1403 lobbyists, with $57 million allocated for federal lobbying; $8 million alone was spent in the first quarter, up 35% from the year before. What makes them unique as an industry is that they outspend every other industry in both lobbying efforts and in advertising that saturates all realms of the media. Today, worldwide PhRMA drugs exceed a trillion dollars in sales. And over the years, billions of those dollars washed onto the shores of the Food and Drug Administration, only to be returned in an ebb and flow of profits from the government’s Medicare and Medicaid drug plans to Big PhRMA. In 2015, taxpayers funded the FDA with $331.6 million, but seventy-one percent of the funding, totaling $791.1 million, was provided by the drug companies. Hardly what one would consider an independent agency. Some have concluded that the FDA is addicted to drug money.

  This unholy alliance, in part orchestrated by the director, made it easy pickings for the Consortium to find lobbyists from Big PhRMA willing to get their hands dirty—if they thought it were for the right cause. Yes, Justin Slater was the ideal choice.

  “What’s going on?” the Director asked. “I saw an opinion piece in the Wall Street Journal the other day about positive breakthroughs in biotech.”

  “It was only a matter of time before gene therapy would come into its own,” Slater replied. “As you read in the article, Spark Therapeutics is showing promising results with Luxturna in treating retinal dystrophy. Sangamo Therapeutics is another one getting close to being able to edit genes directly. The medical advances are booming in such a way that cell-based gene therapy will become the answer to treating persistent cancers and other diseases.”

  “How’s the FDA reacting to these trials?”

  “They appear to be picking up the pace since the president’s man Gottlieb took over at the helm.”

  “While POTUS was whipping out his pen to repeal his predecessor’s legacy, he could have helped us out by repealing the 2012 Safety and Innovation Act.”

  “You mean the one that allows the FDA to hand out priority-review vouchers to drug companies, which they can later redeem to have other drugs fast-tracked?”

  “That’s the one; the original intent designed for tropical diseases was later expanded to include research in rare pediatric diseases. Keep your eye on the situation. So far, the FDA has been left to operate without oversight, but Gottlieb wants more transparency, forcing the FDA to explain the delay or rejection process. We must make sure they don’t lose their regulatory tradition and entitlements. We can’t lose control over the FDA. Now, what did you find out concerning that other matter?” the Director asked in an altered voice.

  “My source reported something about a package arriving within seventy-two hours.”

  “What package and where?”

  “I don’t know. After the meeting adjourned, which provided nothing beneficial other than their usual carping, the members of a committee called YAP were asked to stay behind. I suspect the committee was a phony because my source said they didn’t discuss much of anything. Most of the time they were silent.”

  “What, were they using smoke signals?!” The director was losing patience.

  “I don’t know if they were using hand signals or writing things down, but they didn’t talk much. Minutes later, they left.”

  “Brilliant! They know they’re being bugged and are not taking any chances. Find another way, Slater. I don’t care how. Just find out what’s in that damn package!”

  The American Beekeeping Federation always seemed embroiled in controversy with the FDA constantly breathing down their hives. Whether it had to do with drugging their bees or labeling their honey, it was time-consuming and costly. Worse yet, several members were under federal surveillance—one was an FDA whistleblower. These strange bedfellows caused the director to use any resource to uncover the connection. Unbeknownst to the Federation, they had become the bullseye on the Consortium’s target.

  Chapter 4

  Bereave Not

  Max, unable to sleep, curled up on the sofa and soaked up the silence. It left her feeling empty, shallow, removed from reality. She reflected on her life as though she were standing on the outside looking in. Faces of blame spun in her mind. Faces of those she had loved, those she had befriended, those she had trusted. Reality had betrayed her again. Death was everywhere. Max stared at the empty glass; Old Mr. Jim Beam was empty too—the bottle neither half-full nor half-empty—void of any usefulness.

  “Snap out of it, Max! The bourbon is doing the thinking for you.” She held her head tightly in her hands as though she could squeeze out the demons. Without warning, the phone rang, breaking the deafening silence. She noticed the name on the caller ID and the time; the clock hands were aimed at a few minutes past midnight. Timing sucks, Allison.

  Allison was her best friend and schoolmate throughout college. For Max, Allison was the sister she never had. And even though their life’s ambitions took off in different directions, the emotional bond held them tight. Allison trained as a flight attendant and headed for the wild blue yonder; Max trained for the CIA.

  The phone rang continuously, with no sign of conceding.

  “Dammit!”

  “Hey, what’s up?” Max asked, steadying her voice.

  There was no immediate response. Then, in a barely audible murmur Allison said, “Jeff’s dead.”

  “Oh, God!” Max gasped. “What happened?” The sobering question momentarily replaced her personal despair.

  “They said a heart attack—but it seems farfetched and I don’t believe them! Jeff had a heart like a raging bull. He took great care of himself.” Allison rattled off in denial, sketching in the details, searching for words to make it untrue. Her initial response turned despair into disbelief.

  Max focused on only one word. “Who’s they?”

  “What? Max! You have to find out what really happened!”

  “Allison, calm down. Tell me what they said.” Max tried to focus while the jackhammer in her head worked overtim
e.

  “An official from the State Department. He arrived at the house a few hours ago. He said Jeff was found unconscious in a hotel room in a Godforsaken place in Brazil. Something like Manos, Manus. I don’t know. They’re flying his body home tonight. The plane arrives at nine.” Allison delivered her words at a drumbeat pace and then became incredulous. “They want to conduct an autopsy! Max, cut him open!”

  “Sweetie, it’s standard protocol for any government official who dies on foreign soil. But why was Jeff in Brazil in the first place?”

  “I have no clue. It sounds pathetic, but he never brought his work home. Once he stepped off the Hill and walked through the front door, he focused strictly on the kids. All I can tell you is he’s on several Senate investigative committees. Perhaps the trip was related to one of them. He was like you—always playing amateur sleuth.”

  Hope she’s not implying I’m playing, or worse, an amateur. Max brushed off the inference and asked, “Has Jeff been on any other trips in recent weeks?”

  “He’s been in Washington for the last two weeks, which is highly unusual. Before that, he was in New Mexico for one night.” Allison sounded peeved.

  Max picked up on her uncharacteristic tone. “What’s going on?”

  “The life of a senator! Jeff traveled at least once a week. Convenient overnighters. Hmph,” she sniffed.

  The lightbulb lit up. “Allison, you’re not serious? You don’t believe Jeff was having an affair?”

  “I honestly don’t know what to believe. His behavior has been awkward for the past several months. When I tried to speak with him, he said it was business and blew it off. After a while, I stopped asking—then we dropped the subject.”

  “Sweetie, I’m sorry. But I’m sure there’s an explanation. Jeff loved you and the kids. He’d do nothing to jeopardize your marriage.”

  “Max, you’re not the one that lived with him. Leave it alone. Why do you want to know about his travels anyway?”

  “I’m just trying to grab on to something.”

  “It’s pointless now.” She paused. “Odd… I always worried the next election might send us packing. I never considered that I’d have to pack alone. I’m a senator’s wife. What the hell am I supposed to do now?!”

  “You do nothing. Take time to grieve; be with the kids. You’ll have plenty of time to figure things out later. In the meantime, I’m here for you. All you need to do is ask.”

  Sounding devoid of emotion, Allison asked, “Can you drive me to the airport tonight? I’ll need a friendly body to hold on to.” In an instant, it hit her. She was going to meet her husband coming back from a trip. Something she had done hundreds of times. This time she would greet him at the cargo hold in a coffin. The moment arrived. She could hold back no longer. Allison broke down and wept.

  Max gave her a few moments and when the sobs subsided, she agreed. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  When the line went dead, Max sat back, recalling another more pleasant phone conversation years ago, almost as if it were yesterday. Allison had returned from Paris where she had met the man of her dreams; it was love at first sight with the first-class passenger seated in 2A. For six hours, she literally wined and dined him. Max managed a chuckle, remembering Allison’s complaint. “Only problem is, Max, he’s a United States Senator and a Republican!” But in a year’s time, Allison adjusted and became Mrs. Jeffrey Lance. For fifteen years, she lived as a senator’s wife inside the Beltway. Now, what will she do indeed?

  Max made an emergency visit to the kitchen and returned to the sofa holding a half-full glass. She opted to leave temptation and the fresh bottle of bourbon behind on the counter. “Here’s to you, buddy!” she saluted and took a sip of the oaky brew. As it warmed her throat, another face flashed before her. He was the one person who, through an odd set of circumstances, she came to rely upon; the one person who wanted nothing from her in return. She hit the speed dial button and waited for the phone to complete the dialing.

  “Haaaay, what are you up to?”

  “Princess, it’s one-thirty in the morning. What do you think I’m up to?”

  “Sorrrry, Sam. I couldn’t sleeeep.”

  “You okay? You don’t sound like yourself.”

  Max mustered her strength and then forced out the words. “Jeff Lance is dead.”

  “The senator?”

  “Yeees, he had a goddamn heart attack in Brazil.”

  “I’m sorry. Were you close?”

  “Whendoesdeathstop?” Max slurred.

  “Honey, you’re not making any sense.”

  Max took another sip from her glass. Ironically, it had a sobering effect. Anger suddenly replaced despair. “Death! I’m talking about death! Jax died of a fucking aneurysm! Noble tried to kill me and ended up dead himself. You, near death, ended up in the hospital with two shots to the chest. And I left Stanton for dead. All this carnage because of me!”

  “Stop it! Daniel is responsible, not you!”

  “Daniel is my brother—my flesh and blood—and he’s still out there!”

  Sam remained silent, assessing her level of anguish.

  “Sam. Sam, did you hear me?!”

  “I hear you. But there’s no reason for Daniel to come after you. Max—look, it’s over! We’re alive! You’re the heroine—and one tough lady at that. You took down Erog. You exposed their hoax. You crippled the Consortium.”

  A sudden image of her holding the gun to Erog’s temple, caused a wave of nausea and the realization—of how far she might have gone. Thank God, he opted for cyanide, she thought.

  Her venting about past events concerned Sam. He hoped it was just her favorite drink talking. “Hey, princess, what’s with the drama?”

  “It hurts so damn much. I miss Noble! I loved him and trusted him!”

  “That bastard! He betrayed your trust and was about to kill you! Frankly, I’m glad he’s dead!”

  “He betrayed himself,” she murmured. Then with more fury, she cried, “That damn Consortium! How could they coerce him into believing their sick version of utopia?!” Max’s anger funneled through her slurred speech.

  “To control the earth’s resources. To control the population. All for the betterment of mankind. It’s all bullshit! It’s so bloody unfair!” she lamented.

  Sam caught the despair in her voice. He toned down his own rhetoric and tried to assure her. “I heard someone say once that, ‘unfair is a term created by the weak because they can’t defeat the strong.’ That’s not you, princess. Now, go pour yourself another stiff drink, tie one on, and then go get some sleep.”

  Suddenly, a friendly wave of exhaustion hit her. She did not fight it and agreed. “Good night, Sam.”

  Max hung up the phone and took another sip as she reflected on the time Sam had first called her “princess.” It was on that horrible night when her father was killed. Sam, code name Casper, was the man with the piercing gray eyes, who crouched down, picked her up out of a pool of her father’s blood, and carried her away to safety. At the time, Sam was carrying out a favor for his friend, Senator Sherman Spark. Twenty-five years later, under unusual conditions, Sam was called to do another favor at the behest of his friend—to save Max’s life and a scientist’s in the process. And they were the only two men in the world who knew her as Claudia Irving.

  Chapter 5

  The Beekeeper’s Tour

  “Mornin’. My name is Ollie Prince, and I’m the proprietor of this here Clovis Hill Apiary. I welcome y’all and commend you in your interest in maybe one day becomin’ an apiarist. The bees need you! Follow me, and I’ll explain why.”

  The high-school students sauntered behind Prince as he walked through the warehouse, inside of the apiary. Eyes darted about, but all ears tuned in with great interest, as he provided more details about the beekeeping business.

  “As bee breedin’ companies go,
we’re rather a li’l bidness, with only fifty hives housing a million bees. By comparison, the largest beekeeper in the US is the Adee Honey Farms, headquartered in South Dakota, with operations in California, Mississippi, and Texas. They’ve over ninety-two thousand hives; with bout forty thousand bees per hive. That’s a dang woppin’ three-point-five billion bees. Can you imagine that many buzzers?” He smiled as he caught a few of his young students zoning out. “But mind y’all, no matter how many bees, we still must stick to strict controls, providin’ the proper nutrition and negatin’ diseases, thus allowin’ us to propagate them colonies at a fast pace. I understand most of you are thinkin’ bout summer internships in an apiary. Give me a show of hands?”

  All hands shot up, but Prince suspected no one wanted to look like they were just skipping a day of school.

  “You take lots of notes now, and y’all bees that much smarter,” he chuckled.

  The group laughed, picking up on his humor, as they followed him outside into the field. The temperature was frigid, causing them to bunch close together next to the hives, but they paid great attention and listened as Prince provided a wealth of information. Every so often, a brave bee would venture out of the hive, but only for a second to eliminate body waste. Mostly, they stayed tucked inside and waited for warmer days to arrive.

  Prince began by identifying the varying levels of beekeepers. “There’re backyard and sideliners, like mahself, who have lesser of a focus on the commercial bidness, but we are important in our own right.” He informed them that there are about eighteen hundred established commercial beekeepers, but in total, beekeepers contribute to 2.6 million hives in the US. “The entire industry is not made up of just pollination services, as we call us beekeepers, but also the farmers and growers and the bee brokers. We’re all vital parts to the supply chain.” He emphasized that honey production, however, is only thirty percent of the US supply, with most of the honey being imported, so the bees’ major focus has been on the food supply. “Here’s a little interestin’ fact. We caint produce over a hundred different crops commercially in the US, without some form of pollination. For sure, wind and animal pollination contribute. But one third of the crops rely on bees to do the deed. Imagine that: one third of our crops need our bees.”