Turchin and Rasmussen were due for lunch and a tour at the BVM Corporation. As Deputy Director of Planning for the Minselkhoz, the Russian Federation’s Ministry of Agriculture, Turchin controlled just about everything in Russia related to livestock farming, veterinary services, plant and animal pharmaceuticals, crop production, phytosanitary control, soil fertility, aquaculture and water biological resources. An honors graduate of Moscow’s prestigious National Research University Higher School of Economics, the 64-year-old Turchin, who thanks to a rigorous physical regimen looked ten years younger, was a favorite in Washington, known for his prowess on the tennis court. His American friends might not have been so accommodating had they known that prior to a careful laundering of his background he was known as a particularly brutal colonel in the Soviet Union’s Committee of State Security, the dreaded KGB.
“I was told that you’ve never visited BVM, Dr. Turchin,” Rasmussen said. “I’m a bit surprised, given the company’s long history with Russia. You must know how important the company, which was then called Barker Vallance Magruder, was to Russia in the Second World War. I believe it was a relationship that even continued during the Cold War, if you can believe it.”
Rasmussen was trying to show off her knowledge, Turchin thought. Knowledge she probably gleaned from a quick perusal of a briefing paper last night. Another female promoted for good looks over competence. The Americans make such a big deal over “equal opportunity,” but Turchin had yet to see a woman weather forecaster on their television who couldn’t win a beauty contest. The same held true for many of the Government drones that had been assigned to keep him company. In Russia, the few women allowed to hold jobs of any importance had to know their stuff. I know more about BVM and its history than this American knows about her own pussy. Turchin smiled. Actually, that was something he’d like to know more about. Rasmussen was certainly a good-looking girl, tall and lithe with a sharp, pretty face. In Russia, he admitted, he’d probably be sitting in a car with a woman the size of refrigerator and the face of sturgeon.
“Yes, that is true,” Turchin said.” I am looking forward to my tour. BVM has a wonderful reputation in my country.”
“I think you will really be impressed by Dr. Lenzer,” Rasmussen gushed. “We consider him something of a visionary. He’s doing wonders at BVM.”
“So I understand,” Turchin said.
It certainly didn’t take long for the Americans to forget about Bryan Vallance, the Russian thought. As long as the stock went up, they didn’t care who was in charge. He opened his briefcase and began reading some documents related to BVM’s worldwide activities. The information was produced by a Wall Street securities firm and was widely available, but Turchin nevertheless found it useful and comprehensive. He smiled inwardly at his other knowledge of BVM, and its new chairman, that was unavailable to the analysts, and had never been committed to paper.
“There it is,” Rasmussen said ten minutes later.
Turchin looked out the window as the Explorer turned down a long road toward the giant BVM complex. Good Lord!
“What is that building?” he blurted.
They were passing a huge structure that almost blotted out the horizon. At one end of the building was a rail terminus, in which several trains with scores of boxcars each were obviously in the process of unloading grains and corn. At the other end of the massive edifice, which must have been 100 feet high and a quarter of a mile in length, a constant stream of trailer trucks roared away in clouds of asphalt dust and diesel smoke.
Turchin had never seen anything quite like it.
“What is in the trucks?” he asked.
“Margarine,” Rasmussen said. “One out of every three tubs of margarine produced in the United States comes out of that one building. Grains, soybeans and corn go in one end, and margarine in little tubs comes out the other. Hundreds of millions of them.”
“I didn’t know BVM sold margarine,” Turchin said, impressed in spite of himself.
“Oh, no. The company doesn’t sell margarine directly to consumers. The retailers just slap their own name brands on the tubs. No one can tell the difference, you know.”
What a horrendous waste of good grain, Turchin thought, actually incensed.
“I wonder what we will have for lunch,” Turchin, who fancied himself a bit of a gourmet, asked glumly.
“Keep your fingers crossed,” Rasmussen said. “I’ve been here before and got nothing but soy burgers and soy milk. And, of course, bread and margarine. But maybe they’ll treat you better, Doctor. After all, you are a valued guest.”
You don’t know the half of it, the Russian thought.
***
Turchin and Rasmussen were a little early, and when they got to the BVM headquarters complex they were told that Roland Lenzer was on the “trading floor.” An assistant offered to take them there and they agreed.
The “trading floor” turned out to be a huge computer room that resembled nothing so much as a stock or commodities exchange, with scores of men and women at computer terminals, constantly working their machines or phones. All the “traders” faced a massive, floor-to-ceiling electronic Mercator map projection showing the entire planet. Hundreds of green and red dots could be seen on the oceans.
The BVM assistant led them up a central aisle to where two men were standing looking up at the map. The shorter of the men was pointing at something in the Pacific Ocean. The other man said “fascinating” and wrote something in a notebook.
The assistant cleared his throat and said, “Dr. Lenzer?”
The shorter man turned around, looking annoyed.
“Yes.”
“Dr. Lenzer, I’m sorry to interrupt,” the assistant said quickly. “This is Dr. Turchin from the Russian Ministry of Agriculture and Ms. Rasmussen from the United States Department of Agriculture. You left word to bring them to you if you weren’t back when they arrived.”
“Yes. Of course. Thank you, Tom.”
Lenzer put out his hand. He was a thin man with a sallow complexion and bad skin who looked as if he didn’t spend much time outdoors. His blond hair was stringy and combed straight back. His eyes were his best feature, blue and piercing.
“Dr. Turchin. A pleasure. Your reputation precedes you.”
“As does yours, Dr. Lenzer.”
Lenzer smiled, revealing teeth that looked like a line of tombstones. He turned to Rasmussen.
“Nice to see you again, Anne,” he said with a perfunctory handshake and a small bow. “Will you be joining us for lunch?”
“Yes, thank you, Doctor.”
“I hope you will be with us a while, Dr. Turchin,” Lenzer said. “I have so much to show you.”
“Until Wednesday.”
“Wonderful. Where are you staying?”
“I’ve arranged rooms at the Boone City Inn,” Rasmussen said.
Lenzer looked horrified.
“The Boone City Inn! Do you want to start the Cold War all over again? Cancel the reservation for Dr. Turchin. I would be honored if he stayed at my house.”
“That’s very kind,” Turchin said, “but I don’t want to be a bother.”
“Nonsense. I’ll be glad to have some company. I have a huge home all to myself. And I can provide meals far superior to any you would have in Boone City. And then we can talk more informally. I may even have some Russian vodka lying about.”
“Yes, I would like that,” Turchin said. “Is that a problem, Anne?”
Rasmussen looked confused, but rallied.
“Of course not.”
“Good, then it’s settled,” Lenzer said. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to drop Dr. Turchin off at my home around 7 P.M. One of my assistants will give you the directions. I want to stop in town for some things for dinner. I presume you are probably sick of looking at corn and soybeans, Dr. Turchin. I’ll get us a couple of nice steaks to grill.”
Lenzer suddenly realized he’d been ignoring the man he’d been speaking to when the others j
oined them.
“Forgive me.” He turned to the man and introduced him. “This is Jake Stone from Shields Magazine. I was giving him a quick tour. He’s doing a piece on Bryan Vallance.”
“Indeed,” Turchin said.
“Actually, it’s a book,” Jake Scarne said, shaking hands all around. “A biography.”
“Something like the one about Steve Jobs that came out after his death?” Rasmussen said.
“Well, yes. Although I don’t count myself in Isaacson’s league.” Scarne adjusted the reading glasses he’d bought in Chicago to make him look more literary. Kate said their thick black frames only made him look like Clark Kent. “We think Vallance was just as much a visionary in his field as Jobs was in his.”
Scarne was glad he’d read Walter Isaacson’s Jobs biography .
“I was just showing Mr. Stone our map,” Lenzer said. “If I might continue?”
“Please,” Turchin said.
“All those dots represent ships owned, leased or chartered by BVM,” Lenzer said. “Each is carrying one of our cargoes. Soybeans, wheat, corn, rice and the like. The green dots represent ships that are still going to their original destinations. The red dots are ships that have been rerouted.”
“Rerouted?”
“Yes, Mr. Stone.” Lenzer waved his arm to encompass the staff working at their computer terminals. “These people track commodity prices in real time, using computers tied to the exchanges in Chicago and elsewhere. When they are alerted to a price differential that makes it more economical to deliver the product to another port, we simply redirect a ship there. Thus, a cargo hold full of say, corn, originally destined for the British Isles might be diverted through the Strait of Gibraltar toward Egypt.”
“Wouldn’t that annoy the Brits who are expecting that corn?”
“We have so many ships that it will mean only a small delay. Another one will fill the order. Most of our customers benefit from the system, so they are very understanding. And, on occasion, we will offer a discount for any delay.” He laughed. “A discount our computers already factor in when determining the price arbitrage advantage when we reroute. Now, if you will excuse me, Mr. Stone, I have a luncheon date with Dr. Turchin and Ms. Rasmussen. I’m sure Tom would be happy to show you around the remainder of our facilities. Tom will also take you to lunch. We have an excellent cafeteria. Perhaps you can talk to some of the employees who knew Bryan. He was well liked. Tom, make sure they know that Mr. Stone has our full cooperation. Then kindly bring him to my office at 4 P.M. We can finish our interview then.”
With that, Lenzer left with Turchin and Rasmussen. Tom the assistant, who didn’t look all that thrilled to babysit Stone/Scarne, took him in hand.
CHAPTER 24 - LADIES ROOM
The lunch offerings in the brightly lit and expansive employee cafeteria leaned heavily in favor of products made from soybeans. Tom, whose last name was Dilbert, insisted that Scare try a “Boone Burger,” which he claimed, tasted “just like meat.” Having heard that particular fiction before, Scarne added a salad and a piece of what he hoped was a real apple pie, just in case.
He decided it wouldn’t hurt his cover to actually speak to some employees. He might even learn something. After they got their trays, Dilbert steered him to a table where half a dozen BVM staffers were eating. The employees who had known Bryan Vallance spoke highly of the former chairman. Although Scarne knew they were unlikely to badmouth Vallance in front of Dilbert, their comments seemed genuine.
Scarne noticed a table of white-coated men, all blond, sitting by themselves in a corner.
“Tom, who are those people over there,” he said, nodding in their direction.
“Oh, those are Lenzer’s acolytes.”
“Sorry.”
Dilbert laughed.
“That’s what we call them. Dr. Lenzer brought them over from Germany. They all work in his lab.”
“The Black Hole?”
Dilbert looked surprised.
“So, you’ve heard the phrase.”
“Research,” Scarne said evenly. He didn’t want Dilbert to think he wasn’t up to speed on BVM. There would be less chance he’d be fed public relations Pablum. ‘Maybe I should talk to some of them.”
“You can try,” Dilbert said. “But it will be a waste of time. They are kind of clannish. Stay separate from everyone else. Pleasant enough, to be sure. They’ll give you the party line on Bryan, but none of them were big fans of his. He was going to break up their department and spread their responsibilities around.”
“Are you one of Lenzer’s acolytes?”
“He’s my boss, and he’s been great to me, but Bryan hired me. I really liked him.”
“But Lenzer kept you on.”
“Sure, he kept most of Bryan’s mid-level staff. Some of the higher-echelon people left, of course, I’d guess you’d call them Vallance’s loyalists, but Dr. Lenzer made sure they were well-compensated. They all got great recommendations and landed on their feet. All in all, considering the tragic circumstances, the transition was less painful than many of us feared.”
And the Black Hole survived, Scarne thought.
“I was rather surprised to see that Russian chap,” he said casually. “Does he visit often?”
“I don’t think he’s ever been here before,” Dilbert replied. “I was kind of surprised Dr. Lenzer invited him to stay at his house. It’s not his style.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Dilbert said quickly. “Roland can be very sociable when he wants to be. He’s even invited some of us out to his place for a barbecue and to watch football. But I can’t ever remember an overnight guest. But, then, I guess Turchin is someone special.”
I bet he is, Scarne thought. Maybe I am in a Cold War novel.
After lunch, Dilbert took Scarne on a tour, by golf cart, of BVM’s facilities, where he learned more than he wanted to know about crops, animal husbandry, feed, livestock vaccines and the dozens of other areas in which BVM was a world leader.
“It seems BVM is more of a pharmaceutical company than anything else,” Scarne said at one point during a tour of a laboratory..
“Yes,” Dilbert said. “We drive Wall Street crazy. They don’t know how to pigeonhole us. When they were convinced we were just a big farming combine, our stock fell lower than a sow’s belly. Wish I had been around then. That was the time to buy the stock. It was Bryan Vallance that convinced the investment community we were a hybrid pharmaceutical/technology company, so now our stock bounces between the multiples of those type of companies.”
“Lenzer’s been pretty good for the stock, too, I understand.”
“Oh boy, has he ever. I’m afraid the bargain days in BVM stock are in the past. We won’t see any big drops unless something really unusual happens. And if it does, sell the farm and buy shares. BVM feeds the world. There are seven billion mouths out there.”
Scarne noticed that there was one building they skipped. He mentioned it to his guide.
“That’s Dr. Lenzer’s lab,” Dilbert said.
“I’d like to see it,” Scarne said, and started walking toward the structure, a modern two-story steel-and-concrete edifice. Dilbert grabbed his arm.
“Sorry, Mr. Stone. But that’s off limits. Remember what I said about BVM’s technology. Well, that’s cutting-edge stuff in there. I’m not even sure about some of it. But Dr. Lenzer is paranoid about corporate piracy. You’d have to get his permission to go in there. Maybe you can ask him later.”
Scarne didn’t want to make an issue of it.
“No problem. My project is more human interest than anything else. Get too technical and readers’ eyes glaze over.”
It was just after 4 P.M. when Dilbert ushered Scarne into Lenzer’s office. Scarne thanked the assistant and he left.
“Take a seat, Mr. Stone,” Lenzer said. “I trust that Tom was helpful.”
“Very,” Scarne said. “Your facilities are quite amazing. I think the on
ly one I didn’t get to see was your private laboratory. Tom said I’d need your permission for that.”
Lenzer’s smile diminished a fraction.
“Nothing to see. Or, I should say, plenty to see, but nothing you could write about.”
“I’m not into industrial espionage, Dr. Lenzer. I just thought it might give more feel for BVM.”
“Of course, of course. Forgive me. I’m a bit paranoid about my pet projects. You understand. I certainly can arrange a tour of the facility. Might even be able to work up a briefing paper on some of the work that’s not too specific. I should have thought to have you join Rasmussen and Dr. Turchin for their tour.” He looked at his watch. “Which should be ending right about now. How about tomorrow?”
“That would be fine.”
Lenzer pushed a button and a young woman from the outer office came into the room.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Connie, please set up a visit to my laboratory tomorrow for Mr. Stone, say at 10 A.M. And call Hans and ask him to put together a press kit about our work there. He will know what to do.”
The girl hesitated.
“What is it?”
“Doctor, perhaps you forgot that I’m supposed to leave early today. I have a dentist appointment. I’m running late as it is.”
Lenzer looked annoyed.
“Well, then get someone else to do it.”
“Who?”
Lenzer exploded.
“I don’t give a damn. Call another department. Just make it so! Make it so.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
The girl left.
“I’m so sorry about that, Mr. Stone,” Lenzer said. “Sometimes I think it’s better to do everything oneself.”
Make it so!
Scarne’s expression never changed at Lenzer’s remark.
“I know exactly what you mean, Doctor.”
Especially when it comes to hiring an assassin to kill your predecessor, he thought.
Scarne spent the next hour asking Lenzer questions about the company and his background. Lenzer told him nothing that wasn’t in a Wall Street report. He was, of course, effusive in his praise of Bryan Vallance, the man whose murder he’d undoubtedly arranged.
THE VIRON CONSPIRACY (JAKE SCARNE THRILLERS #4) Page 15
