SEVEN
Josiah Karume spotted a familiar face descending the curved staircase of the Hotel Batignolle Villiers in Paris. “Hector!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea you were coming to the conference, my friend.
The Mexican trotted across the lobby, his face beaming. “How could I miss the moment when you become our new chairman?”
“You mean the moment when the mountain of paperwork slides from my predecessor’s shoulders to my own?”
Hector laughed. “I cannot think of anyone more suited to climb that mountain than you.”
“Thank you, Hector. I appreciate your support.” Josiah gave his I-FEED colleague a warm handshake. The organization’s far-flung employees stayed at this small, inexpensive hotel when attending food summit meetings in France. It gave them the opportunity to share both professional and personal news.
“I’ve been planning the trip for some time,” Hector said. “The corn has become such an issue this year. I felt I should be here despite the cost.”
“Of course, Hector.” Josiah laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “How is your wife? And those two fine sons?”
“All good. But I’m traveling too much these days. Mostly to Oaxaca, of course. The roads are very bad down there. And you—how is your family, amigo?”
“Very well, thank you.” Newly arrived from the Somali refugee center, Josiah had intended to unpack his bags and leave for the conference center immediately. But registration could wait. “May I treat you to a late lunch, Hector? This corn situation will affect my work, too, sooner or later. I should like to know what you’ve learned.”
“Certainly. I was planning to walk down the street to a café just now anyway. Shall we?”
Josiah left his bags with the hotel manager and accompanied the younger man out into the spring afternoon. The Friday traffic sped past them, not so different from Nairobi, New York, Buenos Aires or any other large city. In Paris, businessmen hurried to appointments, lovers strolled along the Champs-Élysées, tourists poured from the Louvre to board sightseeing boats that cruised along the Seine. Everyone moving, talking, honking, pushing, urging. Few gave thought to anything beyond the circle of their own vision. Most in this world, Josiah knew, had very narrow vision.
“Researchers for the Mexican Environmental Ministry recently went into the mountain villages of Oaxaca,” Hector was saying as they took a table at a small sidewalk café on Rue des Batignolles. “They were trying to confirm what a team from the UZACHI agricultural center had discovered in November 2000—that the genetically pure strain of corn in the Zapotec Indian village of Calpulapan had been polluted by genetic alterations.”
“I read the original study, of course. I was deeply concerned.”
“As were we. Our rural indigenous people believe the gods created man from an ear of corn. To alter a religious icon is bad enough, but Mexico has only about sixty pure varieties of native corn—a crop that can be traced back four thousand years. My friend, the whole world relies on our un-polluted genetic stock to ensure biological diversity.”
The Kenyan had fallen silent as his colleague spoke. He knew diversity was essential as a hedge against diseases, pests and climate change. But genetically modified strains of corn could contaminate or even displace Mexico’s original stock. While there was no evidence that eating these modified crops was harmful, it was clear that they could crowd out—and eventually eliminate—the pure varieties. And without biodiversity, a single pesticide-resistant insect or disease could virtually wipe out the world’s supply of corn.
As Josiah tried to imagine Sub-Saharan Africa without its staple food, cornmeal, Hector greeted the waiter. The men ordered sandwiches on baguettes and spoke of other things—the upcoming conference on world food issues, their countries’ World Cup soccer prospects, the status of I-FEED.
When their lunch arrived, Josiah was deep in thought. “Tell me, Hector,” he said, “were the researchers for the Mexican Environmental Ministry able to confirm the original study on the polluted corn? Or did they find it to be false?”
Hector shrugged. “False, of course. The few polluted strains discovered, they announced, may disappear by themselves or remain at low levels for a long period of time. Ha! Disappear? Can you imagine that? But you must understand, the ministry is under great pressure to deflect attention from the problem. Mexico is a net importer of corn, my friend—more than nine million tons annually, and almost all of it from where?”
“The United States,” Josiah said. “Home of the world’s giant agrochemical companies and genetically engineered–seed producers. Tell me, have you spoken with Vince Grant about this matter?”
“Why do you place so much trust in Agrimax, Josiah? That company and the two other Goliaths—Progrow and Megafarm—have far too much control over the world’s food supply. And I question whether they are truly competitors. Yes, my friend, we know who fills Señor Grant’s bank account.”
“But his heart, Hector. I believe his heart is good.” The Kenyan sighed. “He has promised a large shipment of cornmeal for my Sudan project.”
“And where is this cornmeal now?” Hector held up a hand. “Wait. Let me guess. Still in a warehouse in Kansas?”
“I have to send him the final paperwork.”
“We shall see, amigo.” He tapped Josiah’s plate with his fork. “But eat. Here, you have rich white bread stuffed with roasted chicken and fresh egg and tomato. Soon enough, you return to the land where no rain falls and nothing grows. Where if the people don’t perish of hunger, then AIDS will get them soon enough.”
“Thank you, Hector,” he said. “You have such a way with words. I should nominate you for the chairmanship of the public-relations committee.”
Cole slipped the cell phone into the front pocket of his jeans. “Jill and Billy are back,” he informed his mother, who was dozing in a recliner. “Mom, I’m going now.”
Geneva opened her eyes and let out a deep breath. “Cole, you didn’t get a wink of sleep last night, and you’re all keyed up. I wish you would just—”
“He followed us!” Billy announced, bursting into the house and tossing Jill’s bag onto the sofa. “That Lincoln followed us all the way past the shopping center and up and down a bunch of streets while Miss Pruitt got lost, and then he turned off onto some side street. I wanted to follow, but she wouldn’t do it, so anyhow, it took us a while to find our way back. But we did, and did you see the guy in the Mercury out there?”
“Cole, what’s wrong?” Jill shut the door. “Something’s happened.”
“Sheriff Holtmeyer called while you were gone,” he said. “The El Paso police found Matt’s pickup in a parking lot near the main bridge to Juarez.”
“I told you!” Billy crowed, lifting one hand for a high five. No one responded, so he turned it into a victory fist. “Yes! I knew the Mattman went to Mexico! I knew that’s what he meant by the paper trail. He went down there to find Hector Diaz!”
“But Hector’s not there,” Jill said. “He’s in Paris.”
“We know that, but Matt didn’t.” Cole picked up the plastic sack of toiletries Jill had bought earlier for Billy. “I can’t understand why he thought he needed to see Diaz, and I have no idea where he’ll go when he finds out the I-FEED office is closed. But I think I’d better head down there and look for him. I’ll take the first flight from Amarillo to El Paso. Then I’ll rent a car and drive over to Juarez. Jill, can you give me the address for the Mexico I-FEED office?”
She grabbed her bag off the sofa. “Here,” she said, “take my Palm. It’s got all my contacts.”
“Take the gun, too, Mr. Strong,” the boy said. “You might need it!”
“He can’t take a gun on the plane.” Jill rolled her eyes at Billy.
Cole took Jill’s arm. “Will you step outside with me for a minute? I need to ask you something.”
“And I need to tell you something.”
He didn’t like the sound of that, Cole thought as he walked out onto th
e narrow concrete stoop of his mother’s house. He glanced down the street at the Mercury. “Two men in it?” he asked her.
“I’m not positive. Maybe just one.” Jill tucked a curly tendril behind her ear. “Listen, Cole, I’m going with you to Juarez.”
“What? No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. I know Hector Diaz and his secretary personally, I know right where his office is, and I speak fluent Spanish.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“You might. Besides, I don’t have any plans for the weekend, so there’s no point in my going home right away.”
Cole’s irritation over the strangers in the Mercury doubled as he focused on Jill’s green eyes. A curl sprang out from behind her ear, but she didn’t seem to notice. “No,” he said, reaching out and tucking it back, “you’re not going with me. In fact, I was going to ask you—and I had intended to be polite about it, too—if you’d be willing to stay here and keep an eye on my mother until I get back. But now I’ll just have to tell you what you’re going to do, because if I stand here and argue, I’ll miss my flight.”
“I’d be happy to stay here, but you don’t need to be heading off to Mexico by yourself.”
“I’m fine by myself. I do everything alone.”
“But you and I are a team now. God put us together in this, don’t you see? And besides, I’m very worried about Matt. I think if I—”
“No,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “No, we’re not a team. You’re you, and I’m me. I’m the one who asked you to come along, not God. I needed you to work the computer, and now I need you to stay here and watch my mother and keep Billy out of trouble.”
“Billy can watch your mother. Those men aren’t interested in her. They’re after Matt, and that’s why I’m telling you that I—”
“Lady, you could drive a man to drink.” Irritation surging through him, Cole swung around and stalked down the driveway toward the street. Bad enough he had to deal with a couple of thugs terrorizing his mother. Now he had this stubborn woman on his hands, too.
Well, he’d take care of one of the two this minute, he decided, crossing the street and striding toward the Mercury. He could hear Jill following. Even her shoes on the sidewalk sounded determined. What kind of a female was she? God-fearing, zealous, manipulative, hardheaded…and what was he going to do with her? Why had he touched her hair? He wrapped up his jumbled emotions and prepared to hurl them at the strangers watching his mother’s house.
“Hey,” he said, rapping hard on the window. “What are you doing here?”
The tinted glass slid down into the car door, and a man with thinning dark hair and round, wire-rimmed glasses blinked at Cole. “Well, I’m lost, to tell you the truth.”
He smiled at Jill, and somehow that made Cole even madder.
“What’s the problem, sir?” she asked the man.
He held up a sheet of notebook paper on which something had been scribbled. “I’m looking for the home of a Geneva Strong. I was given the street name but not the house number. Do you live in this neighborhood, ma’am?”
“What do you want with Geneva Strong?” Cole demanded.
The man shifted position on the seat, wariness veiling his eyes. “Well, I was told to come here and speak to her.”
“What about?”
“Umm…well. It’s a private matter, actually.”
“I bet it is. I’m her son, buster, so why don’t you just spit it out.”
“Her son!” The man smiled, opened the car door and stepped out. “That’s a relief. They sent me over here from Lubbock. I drove up early this morning, and I seem to have gotten down the address right, except for—”
“Who sent you?”
“The USDA. I’m with the Department of Agriculture.” He held out his hand. “Charles Keeling. Friends call me Chuck. Pleased to know you, Mr. Strong.”
“You men have any ID?” Cole asked.
“Of course, sir.” Keeling motioned to his partner, and both men pulled small wallets from inside their jackets. Keeling held his open, and Cole inspected the familiar green logo—the letters USDA emblazoned above a graphic depiction of rolling farmland.
His anger skulking away like a guilty dog, Cole shook the man’s hand. “Cole Strong. This is Jill Pruitt. So why did the USDA send you to Amarillo?”
“I work in security. I’m with the Office of Crisis Planning and Management—the Texas division, of course. I manage technology for the OCPM across the state. We generally deal with larger issues like counterterrorism and biosecurity, but sometimes the department sends us out to help with more localized concerns. I brought along one of our men from the physical security area.” Keeling leaned into the car. “Ted? This is Mrs. Strong’s son.”
A tall, heavy-shouldered man emerged from the passenger side of the Mercury. He had a shock of graying hair, thin lips, and a neck the size of Jill Pruitt’s waist. He and Cole introduced themselves.
“Ted works as a security guard, for the most part,” Keeling explained, “though he’s had some other training and experience we thought might be helpful.”
“Helpful for what?”
“Last night, my supervisor got a phone call from the Eddy County Sheriff’s Department in New Mexico. I’m assuming your son is Matthew Strong?”
“That’s right.”
“We understand there may be a connection between your son’s situation and a company called Agrimax. Apparently, a former Agrimax employee, Jim Banyon, was murdered yesterday. We realize your son is being sought in connection with the crime, Mr. Strong, but we believe there may be more to this than first meets the eye. Matthew was taken out of school by two men, am I right?”
“Yes,” Cole said.
“And he had been researching Agrimax for a term paper, and he was e-mailing the company?”
“What do you know about Jim Banyon’s connection to Agrimax? I thought Banyon had retired.”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge classified information about the case. Let me just say that Agrimax’s practices have been under investigation for some time by the USDA, and there is cause for concern. We believe your son—perhaps assisted by Jim Banyon, or vice versa—may have stumbled onto some sensitive information. It’s possible Matthew got his hands on some technological data that Agrimax doesn’t want released—an as-yet-unpatented fertilizer or a new pesticide, for example. Or maybe it was something else. The bottom line is that we believe your son—your whole family—may be in danger. Agrimax is a powerful company, Mr. Strong, and they do not take intrusion lightly.”
“This is a food company,” Cole said, incredulously. “You’re telling me they’d use strong-arm tactics against a sixteen-year-old kid?”
“Look what happened to your mother last night,” Jill reminded him. She turned to Keeling. “Two strangers barged into Geneva’s house demanding information.”
“We’re aware of the incident, Miss Pruitt. The Amarillo police contacted us immediately. Yes, Agrimax is a food company, Mr. Strong. And millions of dollars are tied up in any new technology Agrimax develops. These megacompanies are in serious competition with each other. Money and power are involved—and those are strong motivators. I hate to sound trite, but the truth is very simple—control the world’s food supply, and you control the world.”
Cole stared down at the pavement, stricken anew by the seriousness of his son’s disappearance. If Chuck Keeling was right—and Cole had no reason to believe otherwise—then Matt’s panic had a legitimate cause. The boy knew he was in trouble. He had happened upon the body, or perhaps even witnessed, the murder of Jim Banyon. And he knew that anyone who would kill Banyon would kill him, too. Especially if he was still in possession of this technology. Was that why he had been so anxious to find Hector Diaz? Did Matt feel somehow driven to give the technology to I-FEED? What use would that be? I-FEED was some kind of charity, not a corporation that could use technology for good. More important, where would Matt go once he found out Hector Diaz wasn’
t available?
“The moment we were contacted by the police,” Keeling was saying, “the USDA took immediate interest in the case. Ted and I have been sent here, in fact, to protect you and your mother.”
“There!” Jill gave Cole a triumphant smile. “This is great. These men can stay with Geneva and Billy, while you and I go to El Paso.”
“I would advise against that,” Keeling spoke up. “For security reasons, we’d like to keep the family in one location.”
“You can’t expect me to sit around twiddling my thumbs while my son’s life is in danger,” Cole said.
“I can’t stop you, Mr. Strong. But the authorities are searching high and low for him—”
“Yeah, and so is Agrimax. I’m going to El Paso.”
“I’m going with him.” Jill pointed at the house across the street. “Let me introduce you to Mrs. Strong, and we’ll—”
“Were any of your people stationed here last night?” Cole asked, suddenly recalling the other car that had been parked there. “There was a dark blue Lincoln right in this spot. It drove off just before you arrived.”
Keeling frowned at Ted. “We were given no notification about anyone surveilling this street, were we?”
The larger man shook his head. “You ought to report it, Chuck.”
“I’ll do that first thing. Listen, Mr. Strong,” Keeling said, “I do understand your concerns. I’m a father myself. We realize your son is missing and your mother was threatened. But the USDA—along with other federal and state law-enforcement authorities—is on top of this situation. Your best bet is to stay put. I can assure you of that.”
“I won’t be sure of anything until I see my son safe and sound.”
“Of course. But please understand this case goes beyond a missing teenager. Ted and I wouldn’t be assigned to it otherwise.”
Fatal Harvest Page 12
