Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (130 page)

“What do you mean?”

“My business is just starting; you have no money. You need my insects, and I need to advertise. Perhaps we could arrange a trade: I will provide my insects free of charge, and you will tell everyone what a wonderful company I own.”

“How would I do that?”

“Write a letter of praise. Allow me to take your picture and put it in a brochure.”

“That's all? Are you sure that's worth it?”

“People distrust salesmen. Why should they believe me when I am trying to sell them something? But when they see your pretty face in my brochure, they will believe.”

Kathryn considered.

“Here is what I will do,” he said. “I will provide
Trichogramma
to control your tobacco hornworms. This method has been used in Florida with great success—I suggest we distribute several thousand per acre.”

“I've got five acres,” Kathryn said. “That's a lot of insects.”

“They are necessary. The tobacco hornworm can produce four generations per year, and a single female may lay two thousand eggs.”

“How could I possibly distribute all those insects?”

“We ship them as eggs—thousands of them glued to simple sheets of pasteboard. You simply place them in your fields; the eggs will hatch in just a day or two. There is very little for you to do—in your case, nothing. I will it do it for you.”

“You?”

“Why should I waste money on shipping? My company is nearby; I will bring the insects to you myself. I could do it tomorrow morning. You would not have to lift a finger to help—you would never even know I was here.”

Kathryn looked at him. He had a ruggedly handsome face with eyes as blue as ice; they were pleasant to look at and his manner was calm and reassuring. “Free insects and free distribution,” she said. “You know, we have an old saying around here: ‘If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.'”

“In my business we have a saying too: ‘If you can't sell it, give it away.' My insects are worth nothing to me if they die in a laboratory. Perhaps you have no money now, but you will one day—I foresee great success for you, and then you will be my loyal customer. I will make you rich, and you will make me rich.”

“It works for me. It just doesn't seem like a fair trade for you.”

He smiled. “You've caught me—I confess. I have a hidden motive.”

“What's that?”

“If I give more than you, then you will feel indebted to me—then perhaps you will not say no when I invite you to dinner.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes. I would enjoy that very much.”

Kathryn paused. “I'm not sure that's a good idea, Stefan.”

“Why?”

“You're a salesman. I'm your customer.”

“I haven't sold you anything—how are you a customer? We are just two friends helping each other. Friends can have dinner together, can't they?”

Kathryn didn't reply.

“Oh, I see—you have obligations.”

“No, not exactly. It's kind of complicated.”

He shrugged. “A dinner is a very simple thing.”

“It's a very sweet offer, Stefan. Do you mind if I think it over?”

“Perhaps you could give me your phone number. I will call.”

“That would be fine.” She turned over his business card and pointed to his shirt pocket. “Can I borrow your pen?”

Pasha paused. “Sorry—it doesn't write.”

“You carry a pen that doesn't write?”

He shrugged apologetically. “The pen is a memento from an organization I once belonged to. I keep it as a good luck charm.”

“Is it bringing you any luck?”

“Let's find out: Do we have a deal? I could bring the
Trichogramma
tomorrow morning.”

“Deal,” she said.

“There, you see? My good luck charm is working.”

“I just hope this deal works out for you as well as it will for me.”

Pasha smiled. “I'm certain it will.”

Kathryn took out her cell phone and dialed Nick's number; there was no answer. She waited for the prompt and left a message: “Nick, it's Kathryn. Where are you? You're not picking up and you're not returning my calls. I've got something I'd like to run by you. A salesman stopped by just now; he had a great suggestion for controlling my tobacco hornworms. I've decided to give it a try and I'd love to know what you think.” She paused. “You haven't been coming around lately. How come? Callie misses you—so do I. Call me, okay?” She closed the phone.

She looked across the field and spotted Alena and Callie. She hesitated for a moment then started down one of the rows.

“Find anything yet?” she called out as she approached.

Alena looked up. “Not yet. I guess that's good.”

“I guess.”

“Who was that guy?”

“Just a salesman.”

“He looked pretty good from over here.”

“He wasn't bad up close either. He'll be back in the morning. If you see him in the fields just ignore him. He's putting out some bugs for me.”

“He's what?”

“He runs an insectary.”

“What's an ‘insectary'?”

“It's a company that raises insects. The good kind—the kind that eat the bad ones.”

“Boy,” Alena said. “The things people do for a living.”

Kathryn couldn't help glancing at the hairless little dog by her feet. “By the way, have you seen Nick lately?”

“Um—yeah, the other night.”

“The other night? Where?”

“Over in Clinton.”

“Clinton? What was he doing there?”

Alena looked down at the dog. “He took me out to dinner.”

Kathryn felt her face flush. “Oh. Well—good for you.”

Alena didn't reply.

There was a long and awkward silence . . .

Kathryn folded her arms across her chest. “It looks like things are working out for the two of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nick seems to be talking to you but not to me. He hasn't come around for a couple of days—he won't even return my calls.”

Alena shrugged. “You'll have to ask him about that.”

“Do I have to hear it from him, Alena? A friend would tell me.”

Alena said nothing.

Kathryn took her daughter by the hand. “Let's go, Callie—three's a crowd. No sense hanging around where you're not wanted.”

Halfway back to the farmhouse Kathryn stopped and took a business card from her shirt pocket. She stared at it for a moment.
Maybe I've made it too easy
, she thought.
Maybe I need to take my own advice—maybe Nick needs a little reminder that he's not the only interested man out there.

She took out her cell phone and dialed the number on the card.

“Hello?”

“Stefan? It's Kathryn Guilford. I was just wondering . . . is that dinner invitation still open?”

35

M
acy took a seat in the small video conference room and typed in a security protocol on the keyboard in front of her. The room lights slowly dimmed and a wall-mounted flat-screen monitor blinked from black to brilliant blue. A few seconds later a tiny dot appeared in the center of the screen, quickly enlarging to form the old seal of the United States Department of Agriculture. In the center of the seal was a thick shock of corn standing above an old wooden plow. A golden scroll at the bottom of the seal bore the inscription: AGRICULTURE IS THE FOUNDATION OF MANUFACTURE AND COMMERCE.

The screen changed to show a man just settling in to a black leather chair. He smoothed his silver tie, then looked up at Macy and smiled.

“Hi, Andy,” Macy said. “Can you see me okay?”

He flashed her an okay sign. “The wonders of technology. Just think—I'm a whole mile and a half away.”

“Do you remember me, Andy? We met at an interdepartmental security conference a couple of months ago—Homeland Security was hosting a briefing on the National Center for Food Protection and Defense. You gave me your business card.”

“Sure, I remember. How're things over at State?”

“Good. How are the farmers doing these days?”

“The corn is as high as an elephant's eye.”

“Is that good?”

“Oh, that's right—you're a city girl, aren't you?”

“New York City, born and bred.”

“We need to get you out into the country—see the real America.”

“New York isn't really America?”

“Too much concrete. What can you grow in concrete?”

“Theaters, museums, and really good restaurants.”

“Well, we grow the stuff they serve in those restaurants.”

“Okay, you win—I'll start plowing the north forty this weekend. Now, if you're done singing the theme song from
Green Acres
, I need some information.”

“Shoot.”

“You're with the USDA's Foreign Agricultural Service, aren't you?”

“That's us—imports, exports, anything that has to do with agricultural foreign exchange.”

“Are you familiar with a Russian named Yuri Semchenko?”

“Semchenko? Sure. He's sort of a poster boy for capitalism these days, but he's got some people worried.”

“What do you mean?”

“Semchenko is a very old man, part of the Russian old guard. He grew up under Stalin—he actually met the guy once when he visited his hometown. Semchenko was raised on a collective farm called the Sunrise of Communism. Cute name, huh? His family almost starved to death there.”

“Drought?”

“No—Stalin. Eighty years ago there were twenty million family farms in Russia. Stalin came up with the bright idea to combine them all into a quarter-million collectives. When he did, production dropped off the charts and everybody began to starve. Fortunately for Russia, 2 percent of their land remained in small, private farms, and those farms managed to produce 30 percent of the nation's agricultural output.”

“Three cheers for private enterprise.”

“No kidding. Stalin didn't understand farming, and the Communists didn't understand economics—Russia's still trying to recover from Stalin's senseless farm policies. Do you know what the average yield is on a corn farm here in the U.S.? Over ten metric tons per hectare. Do you know what it is in Russia? Less than three.”

“I appreciate the history lesson, Andy, but what's this got to do with Semchenko?”

“Well, Semchenko watched it all happen—he witnessed it firsthand. He knew what Stalin was doing to Russia's farms and he knew what needed to be changed. He attended university; he studied Western farm practices, and he began to apply them. Unfortunately for him, Stalin wasn't a big fan of new ideas, especially if they came from the West—so Stalin threw him into the gulag for a few years.”

“Semchenko survived the gulag? I didn't know that.”

“Tough old bird—smart too. His gulag experience made him a kind of folk hero in Russia. Semchenko knew it and he took advantage of it. He met a lot of important people; he made a lot of useful connections. He managed to be first in line when the Ministry of Agriculture started handing out land twenty years ago. Semchenko owns more farmland than any man on earth—did you know that?”

“No, I didn't.”

“And he keeps buying more. Like I said—he's smart. He knows that only 40 percent of the arable land in Russia is under the plow right now. That means ninety million acres lie fallow, and that's some of the richest land on earth. Semchenko can buy an acre of land in central Russia for four hundred bucks. The same acre in Iowa would cost him nine thousand—talk about a bargain. Foreign investors are lining up to buy land in Russia now, but Semchenko got there ahead of them. The Russian government is shy about selling their land to strangers. They'd rather sell it to one of their own, and Semchenko is more than glad to oblige.”