Madame Loiseau sniffed, blotting the mascara that was forming dark puddles under her brown eyes. “Oh, Matthew, you are a good boy. I don’t want you to die!”
At that, she broke into even louder sobbing. She bent over and wailed into her hands, her shoulders shaking and her breath making little hiccups. Matt wished he hadn’t said anything. It must have been the wrong thing, as it usually was when he tried to talk to people. He looked down at Billy, who seemed to have passed out in the aisle.
“Madame Loiseau,” Matt said, “I’m sorry—”
“Non!” She shook her head. “You do not make me cry, Matthew. It is something else.”
He scrunched the barf bag as she dabbed at her eyes some more. “Well, what?”
“My son,” she said finally, her lips trembling. “He was like you, just a boy. Fourteen.”
“I’m sixteen.”
“Alain was fourteen. He used the…the inline skates, oui?…and he skated every day near my house in Paris. One day, he made a mistake or someone pushed him…we don’t know. He fell into the street, and a car struck him. Like you.”
“Did he die?”
“Oui.” She folded up her handkerchief and dropped it back into her purse. “Three years ago.”
“So that’s why you helped me.”
“I help because you are a silly boy…and a good boy…like my Alain. But you are different from him, also. Alain was a child, you understand? He cared about nothing important, only fun. A happy boy. You, Matthew, talk always about these matters of God.” She paused and lit her cigarette. “I rush to you in the street because you remind me of Alain. But I help you go to Sudan because you are you.”
“It’s because you care about matters of God, too, Madame Loiseau.”
“Pah! I am not religious.”
“But you understand that what I’m saying is true. You believe what I’m doing is right. You’d make a really great Christian, Madame Loiseau.”
She exhaled a big cloud of smoke. “Go to sleep, Matthew. You make me tired.” With that illogical statement, she pulled a little mirror from her purse and began fixing her makeup. Matt’s hands relaxed on the barf bag as he leaned back into his seat. He never knew the right things to say to people. He probably never would.
Cole tucked the blue airline blanket under Jill’s chin and gave himself permission to memorize her. Sleeping, she looked like a child—all softness and warmth, her hair drifting around her cheeks and her pearly eyelids almost translucent. Since the moment he had kissed her under the starlight in New Mexico, Cole had seen and done things he never anticipated in his life.
In Albuquerque, Jill had made up her mind to fly with him to Sudan. Though the expense would eat into her hard-earned savings and wipe out her relief trip to Pakistan in the summer, she refused to listen to Cole’s objections. She knew Sudan—the land, the customs, the I-FEED people, and even a few words of Arabic. And saving Matt’s life had become more important than any other plans she might have had.
A flight to Houston and several hours’ layover had eaten up most of Tuesday. While they waited, Jill wrote lesson plans and used her PDA to e-mail them to her colleague Marianne Weston. She briefly outlined the situation to Marianne and asked her friend to let them know of any news on Matt.
That evening, Cole and Jill had boarded a Northwest Airlines carrier bound for Germany. Arriving in the early morning, they hunkered down in an airport waiting room and tried to sleep. Around noon, Jill received an e-mail from Marianne. To their immense relief, they learned that Matt was no longer a suspect in Jim Banyon’s death.
Cole’s mother had called Amarillo police from Oklahoma City, Marianne wrote. After they drove her home, Geneva Strong confirmed that the two men in police custody had posed as USDA agents and held her and Billy against their will. She said Matt had implicated the same men in his kidnapping and Banyon’s murder.
In the afternoon, Cole and Jill had boarded this Lufthansa jet—destination Sudan. They were due to arrive at Khartoum Airport at sunrise.
Throughout the long hours, Jill Pruitt—the little blond dynamo—had stood by Cole’s side, eager to tackle every obstacle. Faith shone like a beacon from her bright green eyes. Kindness radiated with every word she spoke. And love…Jill’s entire being had been fashioned of love. Her very fiber pulsed with love.
But not for Cole. Not in the way he was beginning to desire it.
He lifted a hand and touched a gold curl near her neck. He had promised to marry Penny Ames. A commitment. A diamond engagement ring. Wedding and honeymoon plans. That was all before God had opened his eyes. His decision to marry Penny had risen out of loneliness, the belief that he ought to provide his son with a mother, and a blind and selfish urge to meet his own needs.
Did he love Penny? Not as he should. He hadn’t loved Anna that way, either. He hadn’t known how. But in just a few short days, Jill had begun to teach him the meaning of true love. It involved sacrifice, commitment, selflessness, purity, righteousness. All those times he’d read the famous love passage in 1 Corinthians 13—the verses had even been recited at his wedding to Anna—Cole hadn’t understood it. Now he longed to live it.
He rubbed his eyes and tried to pray. For Matt…Lord, keep my son alive, keep him safe, help me find him. For the ranch…Guard the land, oversee the crops and livestock, give my men wisdom. For Penny…Help me know what to do.
Could he break their engagement? Should he? Or would it be best to marry her and work to build the kind of love he’d learned from Jill? If he ended their relationship, Penny would go on without him. Young and accomplished, she would bury herself in her career and eventually marry someone else. But Cole had given his word. Dare he violate that?
What did God want from him? Cole wondered. And how could he find the answer?
The plane began to descend. Jill stirred and made the mewing sound he’d heard before. How could he live the rest of his life and not hear that again? But Jill had made it clear she wanted nothing more than brotherly Christian friendship from him. She refused to discuss their kiss and informed him they had nothing to talk about. He was engaged to Penny Ames. Subject closed.
“Are we there?” Jill sat up and brushed back her cloud of ringlets. “Wow, am I bushed. Did you sleep at all?”
“Maybe a few minutes.”
“You’ll learn.” She reached for her bag, then paused. “I mean…if you ever go overseas again.”
“I might.” He watched in fascination as she worked on her hair, pushing and twisting, trying fruitlessly to tame the curls. “Maybe I’ll take a mission trip someday.”
“Really?” She glanced at him, a smile tipping the corner of her mouth. “You’d be blown away by a visit to a refugee camp. It would change your life.”
“My life has changed already, Jill.”
Her fingers stopped working on the curls. “In a good way. You’re not the man who walked into my classroom a few days ago. You’re different.”
He wiggled his bandaged fingers.
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” She took his hand and examined the gauze wrapping. “How’s the pain?”
“I’m in a lot of pain right now,” he said. “But it’s not from my fingers.”
Her eyes darted to his. “I know you’re worried about Matt. I am, too. I wish we could contact that Frenchwoman—Clotilde Loiseau. How many times did we call her house in Paris? But they—”
“I’m worried about Matt,” he said. “I’m eaten up with it. But, Jill, I’ve got another concern on my plate.”
“Your mom? I’m sure she’s—”
“You, Jill.” He captured her hand. “I know you don’t want to talk about what happened between us the other night, and I’m trying to keep my mouth shut.”
“Good. Don’t say a word.”
“You have to hear this one thing.”
“No, I don’t.” She drew her hand away. “Please, Cole, I’m trying really hard to put it all away. I don’t want to—”
�
��I’m a different man now, Jill. You said so yourself. Those days I spent trapped in the wreck changed me. This all-out hunt for my son has changed me. And you’ve changed me.”
“God changed you.”
“Yes, He did. Everything in my life—everything in the entire world—looks different to me now. Including my relationship with Penny.”
“She loves you, and you promised to marry her. Those things haven’t changed, Cole.”
“How do you know?” he demanded. “Those are facts, but you won’t let me talk about what’s in my heart. You don’t understand what I’ve been thinking. You don’t know what I’ve been praying about for hours while you slept here beside me, Jill.”
“I know that when you get home and everything settles down, you’ll see the situation more clearly. Right now, it’s all blurred by your determination to find Matt. That’s the filter you’re looking through—as it should be.”
“My vision may be filtered, but I’m not blind.”
She turned toward the window, her back to him and her voice low. “You can’t make decisions at a time like this, Cole. You don’t have perspective. Trust me.”
He considered her words as the Lufthansa jet thumped onto the runway, reversed its engines, and came slowly to a stop. Africa. Cole looked out the window at the barren ground and scrawny trees. A few days ago, he was sitting on his tractor while he calculated how much chile to plant this spring. Now he was in Africa.
Maybe Jill was right, and things would return to normal when he got back to the ranch. If Matt was safely at home, then Cole could relax. Maybe he would still want to marry Penny and pour his life into his work and give his tithe to the church to spend however they thought best. Maybe he would forget about Mexico and Sudan, about starving people, about relying on God every moment and putting faith into action. Maybe he would forget about Jill Pruitt.
But he doubted it.
Vince Grant stared at his security chief, who sat across from him in the seven-passenger Learjet 55 high over the Atlantic Ocean. He could hardly believe he was traveling to Africa six days before the merger. Mack Harwood had called the night before to report that his men had captured Matt Strong but then let him get away. A Frenchwoman had helped the boy and his friend escape. By strong-arming the woman’s sister, the Agrimax agents had learned that the boys and their rescuer were on their way to Sudan.
Vince realized they could have only one purpose in mind. They planned to give a USB key—which Harwood’s men had learned contained the stolen files—to Josiah Karume, head of I-FEED operations for Africa. Karume was the last person in the world Vince wanted to have the data, with the possible exception of the press.
Rather than fire Harwood on the spot, which was what he wanted to do, Vince ordered the man to accompany him to Africa. He would deal with Harwood’s incompetence later.
“What kind of place is Sudan?” Vince asked.
“Armpit of the world.” Harwood held out a thick file. “This is nonclassified CIA information, sir. They’re fully cooperating with us in the search for the boy. Sudan has a Muslim government and several known terrorist cells in operation. The CIA keeps a close watch on things, of course.”
Vince waved away the file. He didn’t care to read about some godforsaken country in the middle of nowhere. Sudan had oil, but no money. It was light-years behind Saudi Arabia and other oil nations eager to do business with the West. Besides, Congress had passed a law banning trade with Sudan. Beyond putting a stop to the kid who had stolen his plans and fled to this armpit of a country, Vince had no interest in the place whatsoever.
“What about airports?” he asked. “Can we take the Learjet to this I-FEED camp in the south?”
“It’s doubtful, sir. Except for Khartoum Airport, the country relies on small airstrips, many of them unpaved. We’ll have to use the local carrier—Sudan Airways.”
Vince swore. “What about renting a car, driving down there? Or trains?”
“Sudan is the largest country in Africa. Most of the roads are little more than dirt tracks. If it rains, they’re impassable. The major cities are linked by rail, but train service is unreliable and dangerous.”
Looking out the window, Vince tried to calm himself. There was enough time to return to the States and complete the merger six days hence. His blood boiled at the thought of the trouble and expense that one stupid kid was putting him through. But this mess was nothing compared to the potential damage if the USB key fell into I-FEED’s hands.
The kid had gotten into Vince’s most sensitive files. His secret merger plans, his lists of clandestine business acquisitions, his classified scientific technologies, and his elaborate designs to control the world food market had all been accessed and downloaded.
Vince knew this information—if leaked—would cause Agrimax irreparable damage. And it would ruin him. He would be accused of plotting to evade antitrust laws. His hostile takeovers of small businesses and farms would be exposed. Protest groups would have a field day with the controversial genetic technologies in development—and actually being used in some parts of the world—by Agrimax. The press would smear his name. The USDA, the FDA and other government agencies would nail him to the wall. Stockholders would flee like rats from a sinking ship. The company would go under, and all his work and dreams would die. The thought of it was enough to knot Vince’s stomach and send pains shooting through his chest.
Vince had met Josiah Karume more than once in the past few years, and he knew the African would have no qualms whatsoever about using stolen information for his own purposes. Karume had one agenda, and it wasn’t humanitarianism. He was a businessman. Like Vince, he had risen to the helm of a worldwide organization. His goal was to keep the African division of I-FEED solvent, thereby increasing his influence and enriching his own bank account.
Vince had no doubt Karume traveled to refugee camps to distribute some of the produce he wrangled out of Agrimax and others. But the African was no fool. He knew as well as Vince did that food was the key to ultimate power. People had to eat—and they would pay anything to meet that need.
Karume understood the politics of hunger very well. He worked with warlords, tribal chieftains, and anyone else who held the reins of local power in the African countries he serviced on behalf of I-FEED. With the help of greedy middlemen like Karume, the Third World’s black market saw to it that humanitarian agencies were efficiently stripped of their “freebies” in order to enrich the coffers of administrators.
Vince was certain Josiah Karume would gladly blackmail him with the stolen Agrimax data. The African excelled at his role in this global food Monopoly game. Agrimax played the game supremely well. I-FEED and other philanthropic organizations played, too. National and local governments played with great zest. The winner was yet to be determined, of course, but the prize was the same for all—money, power, world domination.
As Vince studied his inept security chief, he inwardly fumed. The man he had relied on to safeguard his empire had failed him. Ultimately, this situation was in Vince’s hands, and he would resolve it. He would manipulate Josiah Karume. He would put a stop to the father who had chased his son halfway around the world.
And Matthew Strong? Vince gritted his teeth as he thought of the sanctimonious kid who threatened to destroy him. If Vince had his way—and he always did—both Matthew Strong and his little USB key would soon meet a satisfying demise.
Jill stepped down onto the hot runway and drew in a deep breath. Africa! The very smell of the place thrilled her. Unable to resist, she slipped her arm through Cole’s and gave it a squeeze.
“This is so exciting! I can’t believe I’m here again.” She had purchased a pale green scarf in the Frankfurt Airport, and she pulled it over her head as they crossed the tarmac to the terminal. “You’re going to love Africa. It’s an amazing place. So many cultures and languages. So many animals. So much to see!”
He gave her a tired smile. “I’d settle for seeing Matt.”
“We
will. But we have to get through customs first, and that could be a hassle. We don’t have visitors’ visas, inoculations—any of that. I wish I’d been able to reach Josiah by phone. He would have smoothed our way into the country. His secretary here in Khartoum sounded pretty glum about the prospect of tracking him down. He must be way out in the boonies.”
“What’s the deal with the scarf?” Cole asked her as he limped across the tarmac on his injured ankle. “There’s not a rain cloud in sight.”
“The northern Sudanese are Muslims, remember? Women cover their heads.”
“You’re not a Muslim.”
“No, but I’m always respectful of local practices.”
Jill and Cole accompanied the other passengers through double glass doors into the cool, concrete-and-tile interior of Khartoum Airport. An official met them and escorted the group to a secure area guarded by two uniformed men cradling large automatic weapons.
“Good morning,” the customs officer addressed Jill when it was her turn to present her passport. “Welcome to Khartoum, madam.”
“Marhaba,” Jill said in greeting. She hoped her smattering of Arabic would be taken as an effort to engage in the traditional exchange of small talk the Sudanese people enjoyed at the start of every meeting. “Thanks be to God—alhamdu lila! I’m so happy to be back in Sudan. I came here three years ago to work at a refugee camp with I-FEED.”
“Ah, this is good.” He gave her a warm grin. “And how do you like Sudan?”
“It’s a beautiful country. Very large!” She pointed to her passport. “You can see the stamp of my visit right here. I stayed for six weeks—sita, naam? It was a wonderful experience. The Sudanese people are so kind.”
“But, madam…” The man looked up, his affable expression suddenly gone. “You do not possess a current visitor’s visa. You cannot be permitted to enter Sudan without the visa.”
“I realize how difficult this is, but—”
Fatal Harvest Page 24
