Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (120 page)

He headed across the small courtyard to the parking lot and his car—but on the way he glanced to his left and noticed a long brick building with almost no windows. There was nothing unusual about the building's appearance; almost everything at NC State was constructed of red brick—the buildings, the sidewalks, even the massive courtyard in front of Hill Library cleverly nicknamed “the Brickyard.” There was a rumor around campus that a wealthy alumnus who manufactured red brick donated a certain number of bricks to the campus each year, and every brick had to be used or there would be no donation the following year. Nick didn't get it. If the guy manufactured Legos, would all the buildings be made of red and yellow plastic?

But it wasn't the architecture that caught Nick's attention. The nondescript three-story building was the home of NC State's Biological Resources Facility. The top two floors housed Small Animal Research, where the rats and rabbits were bred for biological research purposes—but the ground floor housed the NC State Insectary.

Nick set the books down on the sidewalk and headed for it.

He tried the door but found it locked as always—it was a security entrance that had to be unlocked by someone inside. He looked through the window into the insectary manager's office and saw the manager glaring back at him from behind her desk. He pointed to the door and waited, but nothing happened.

Nick pushed the button on the intercom. “Come on, Maggie, let me in.”

“Go away.”

“I'll just go find a security guard.”

Five seconds passed before Nick heard a buzz and a click. He opened the door and stepped into the office.

“No,” she said before he could even open his mouth.

“No what? I didn't say anything yet.”

“No flies—I told you before. I let you talk me into it once and I told you never again. No
calliphorids
, no
sarcophagids
—I'm still having nightmares.”

“Don't be silly. You're exaggerating.”

“Our facilities weren't designed to hold flies, Nick—I tried to tell you that. We raise big bugs here: hornworms, budworms, earworms. Flies are too small. They get out.”

“What's a few flies among friends?”

“There were thousands of them—they were everywhere. On the walls, on the desks, in the air . . . somebody left a sandwich out and the flesh flies all went for it. Female
sarcophagids
give live birth, Nick—remember? They don't lay eggs—they drop little maggots like bombs. They went into a birthing frenzy—maggots were dropping everywhere. They were in my hair, Nick—my
hair
!”

“Have you ever considered that you might not be in the right job?”

“I
like
insects—I just don't like them in my hair.”

Nick paused. “By the way, I like your hair this way.”

Her eyes were like knife slits. “Do you really think you can pacify me with a cheap compliment like that?”

“I was hoping.”

“No flies, Nick. I don't care what you're working on or how many you need—
no flies
.”

“I don't want any flies,” Nick said. “I just want some information.”

She eyed him warily. “What kind of information?”

“You raise tobacco hornworms here, don't you?”

“Of course. They're one of our biggest sellers.”

“Sellers?”

“We don't just raise insects for NC State; we sell them to companies for testing. Bayer Crop Science, Dow Agrochemical, DuPont—even the USDA. We sell to other universities too: Ohio State, Cornell—”

“How many do you produce?”

“About ten thousand eggs a day. Why?”

“How do you ship them?”

“If you're really interested, I'll show you.”

She led Nick across the hall to a lab that was not much larger than her office. Along the right wall was a long counter brightly illuminated by fluorescent lights mounted to the melamine cabinets above. A young man and a young woman were seated at the counter. They were both dressed in powder-blue hospital scrubs and white hairnets.

“Work-study?” Nick asked.

“Yes. We've usually got four or five students working here parttime. They put in about a hundred hours of work for us each week—more now, during the busy season.”

“What do they do in here?”

She led Nick over to the counter. To the left of each student was a paper towel with a large petri dish sitting on it. The dish was covered with hundreds of tiny green dots.

Nick pointed. “Hornworm eggs?”

“That's right. The students' job is to put them into these cups.”

In front of each student was a green cafeteria tray lined with little one-ounce plastic cups. Nick watched as one of the students dipped the tip of a small paintbrush into his petri dish, picked up two or three eggs, and carefully deposited them into one of the cups—then she sealed the cup with a small cardboard disk. In the bottom of each cup was a thick layer of a spongy-looking substance the color of light coffee.

“Is that a growth medium?” Nick asked.

“Exactly—we make it ourselves in ten-liter batches. When the eggs hatch, they'll feed on the growth medium until the buyer is ready to use them.”

Nick looked at her. “What's in that growth medium?”

“It's different for every insect. They all have their own special diets.”

“What about
Manduca sexta
?”

“Nothing fancy—just some torula yeast, Wesson salt mix, vitaminfree casein, wheat germ . . . we grind it all up in a food processor. We ship the eggs in units of one to five hundred. Some of the big companies will buy a hundred thousand at a time in the summer—they scatter them in their fields and then test their new pesticides on them. Just the other day we—”

She looked around the laboratory, but Nick was gone.

Nick opened his cell phone and scrolled through the address book until he found the home phone number for DONOVAN, NATHAN, FBI. He punched Send and waited.

“Nick—how you doing?”

“Put your wife on the phone.”

Donovan paused. “I see you haven't lost your social skills.”

“Sorry. I'm in kind of a hurry.”

“Aren't you always?”

“So why do you always insist on chatting?”

“Haven't talked to you for a while. How's it going?”

“I could go on all night—let's do a sleepover. Put your wife on the phone.”

“Hey, Nick.”

“What?”

“I just wanted to tell you—thanks for what you did up in northern Virginia. I got a big pat on the back for that and I thought I'd pass it on.”

Nick said nothing.

“Are you there?”

“I was just basking in the glory. Praise from you is so rare.”

“Well, you deserve it—this time.”

“If you really want to express your true feelings for me, Donovan, why don't you write it in the memo line of a check?”

“Money is so cold.”

“Take a look at Ben Franklin's face—he's smiling.”

“Hey—did you ever see that woman again? You know—the dog trainer from Endor. I got the feeling there might be something between you two.”

“There's nothing scarier than a large man who ‘gets feelings.'”

“That's not an answer.”

Nick paused. “If you must know, I have a date with her tomorrow night.”

“You're kidding.”

“Is that so unbelievable?”

“It sure is. How'd you get her down to North Carolina?”

“I abducted her. It took an hour to get all the duct tape off.”

“Seriously.”

“I'm working on a murder case, okay? I needed a narcotics dog team and I requested her.”

“Well, what woman could refuse an invitation like that?”

“Is Macy there or not? You're using up my ‘Friends & Family' minutes.”

Nick heard Donovan turn away from the phone and shout, “Hey, Macy, you're never gonna believe this! Nick Polchak has a
date
!”

Nick shut his eyes and waited.

A softer voice came over the phone: “Nick—is that true?”

“Yes, Macy, I actually have a date. Another sign of the apocalypse.”

“With a woman?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What I mean is,
what
woman? Who is she?”

“Macy, this is a professional call. That big bed warmer you're married to can fill you in later.”

“Is it that witch?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Nathan told me about her.”

“He tells you about my personal life?”

“It doesn't take long.”

“She's not a witch, okay? She just lets people think she is.”

“Why?”

“Because she doesn't like most people and she wants them to stay away.”

“Wow—you two should do a commercial for eHarmony. Where are you taking her?”

“To a cocktail party.”

“Really? With other people?”

“No, just the two of us and a roomful of cocktails. Of course with other people.”

“Wow.”

“Yes, you said that. Can we talk business now? I have a question for you.”

“Wow.”

“Would you try to focus, please? I need help, and you're the only one at this number with an IQ over a hundred.”

“Sorry. What is it you want to know?”

“You're the big terrorism expert—you work for the State Department now, don't you?”

“That's right—the Office of the Coordinator for Counterterrorism.”

“Tell me something: Has there ever been a major terrorist attack against a food source? Not a building, not an airliner—a country's food supply. You know the kind of thing I'm talking about?”

“Sure. We even have a name for it:
agroterrorism
.”

“I know it's been tried. People in my own field have even attempted it, but not with much success. During World War II the Germans came up with the clever idea to breed Colorado potato beetles and drop them from airplanes on British potato farms. They actually tested the idea, but too many of the beetles died during testing so they decided to call off the project. Some people believe that actual attacks took place—one on the Isle of Wight as I recall—but if it did happen, the results weren't very impressive. Has anybody else ever tried it?”

“Almost. The Russians during the Cold War—they developed an enormous biological warfare program. They had research facilities all over the country. We didn't have a clue about the extent of their program until one of their top bioweapons people defected to us back in '91. Nathan and I interviewed him once—back when we were working on that plague thing, remember?”

“Sure—in New York.”

“It was a real eye-opener for our intelligence community. It turned out the Soviets were into everything: anthrax, tularemia, smallpox, plague . . . They managed to successfully weaponize hundreds of biological agents, including agricultural agents. Their Ministry of Agriculture formed a special division for developing anti-crop and anti-livestock weapons. The program was code-named ‘Ecology.' Sort of ironic, don't you think?”

“What sort of ‘anti-crop' weapons?”

“Naturally occurring plant diseases they collected and massproduced to use against us if the need ever arose. Thank God it didn't.”

“What happened to those weapons after the Soviet Union collapsed?”

“That was twenty years ago, Nick. The toxins themselves are fairly fragile and they have a short shelf life. Our concern is the scientists who still know how to make the stuff. There are certain parties who would love to know what they know—that's what keeps people like me awake at night.”