Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (135 page)

There was a pause. “I get the feeling you're doing more than basic research.”

“Hang on a minute,” she said. She got up from her seat and walked across the boarding area to an isolated corner of the terminal. “Okay, we can talk now. You're right, Gordon, this is more than basic research. I'm evaluating the possibility that a PhD candidate in plant pathology has been experimenting with
Diplodia
for use as a bioweapon.”

“Seriously?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Does he deny it?”

“He's dead—he was murdered in his lab a couple of days ago and his research was stolen. We managed to retrieve a sample of the toxin from his lab equipment.”

“You need to let us take a look at that.”

“Your people identified it for us. I've asked them to try to determine whether the toxin might have been tampered with genetically.”

“Boy.”

“I want to make clear that this is only a theory, Gordon—no need to pull the trigger just yet. I'm not even sure that what I'm describing is feasible.”

“It's definitely feasible—these days more than ever.”

“What do you mean?”

“We've been doing genetic engineering in agriculture for years. Are you familiar with Bt corn?”

“I've heard of it.”

“Bt stands for
Bacterium thuringiensis
. It's a commonly occurring soil bacterium that's toxic to certain insects. Several years ago we isolated the gene that gives the bacterium its insect resistance and we spliced it into a corn plant. That gave the corn plant the same resistance to insect pests. Bt corn has been a huge success; it's planted all over the world now. In fact, 40 percent of the corn in the U.S. is now Bt corn. See the problem?”

“I'm not sure I do.”

“Forty percent of the corn in the U.S. is now related through a single common gene taken from that bacterium. Years ago, a single field of corn might have contained dozens of distantly related varieties, and that kind of biodiversity gave the field a broader array of defenses to disease. Suppose a fungus came along—
Diplodia
, for example. Half the varieties might have been susceptible, but the other half might have possessed a genetic resistance—so half the corn would have survived. But today we only plant a handful of the most successful varieties. That's getting closer to what we call a
monoculture
; that reduces the biodiversity, and that makes us more susceptible to an agroterrorist attack.”

“How, specifically?”

“It makes it possible to target specific varieties. Take Bt corn—in theory you could genetically modify a toxin to target Bt corn. That one pathogen could wipe out 40 percent of the U.S. corn harvest—if the bad guys could find a way to disseminate it, that is. It's not just a problem for us; loss of biodiversity is a problem all over the world. In Sri Lanka, for example, 75 percent of their rice varieties come from a single mother plant—that's bad. The Brazilians almost lost their entire orange crop a few years ago because of a single citrus disease. Remember the Irish Potato Famine? Same basic problem.”

“But why
Diplodia
?” Macy asked. “You said it wasn't as bad as some of the other diseases. Why choose
Diplodia
over other pathogens?”

“Beats me,” Gordon said. “If I were a terrorist I would have picked
Fusarium
. If you're going to all the trouble, why not maximize the damage? Why not pick a toxin that poisons people and livestock too? I don't get it.
Fusarium
would be like a hand grenade;
Diplodia
is more like a bullet.”

“What if your intent wasn't to harm people or livestock?”

“You mean more of a surgical strike? Well, then
Diplodia
might be your choice. It does have a couple of things going for it: It overwinters well, and it's hard to spot.”

“‘Overwinters'?”

“It survives in the soil even through a very cold winter—like the ones we get in the Midwest. See, the spores start spreading from plant to plant in the fall. After the corn is harvested the farmer plows under all the stover—all the stalks and leaves—and the fungus along with it. The fungus survives in the soil, and when the new plants come up in the spring they're already infected—but you might not know it until the next harvest because there's often no outward sign of infection. But come September you pull back the husks and the whole ear looks like a thousand-year-old mummy.”

“Would it wipe out the whole field?”

“Who knows? Losses from ordinary
Diplodia
can reach 35 percent—and that's without anybody tinkering with the genome. I'll tell you one thing: If somebody wanted to try something like this, it would be a good time to do it.”

“Why's that?”

“Because a fungus spreads faster when you plant corn-on-corn—when you plant corn in the same field year after year instead of rotating it with something like soybeans. Soybeans aren't susceptible; they let the fungus die out. When you plant corn-on-corn, it lets the fungus multiply. Unfortunately, more and more farmers are doing corn-on-corn because there's big money in corn these days.”

“So I hear.”

“This PhD candidate—the one you think might have done this—you said he was murdered and his research was stolen.”

“That's right.”

“Have they found the guy who did it?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you haven't seen his research. He might have been doing something else. You might be way off base here.”

“I hope so, Gordon. Like I said, it's just a theory.”

“Well, if you decide it's more than that, call us first—okay?”

“Don't worry, I've got you on speed dial.”

“Think about dissemination, Macy—that's the key. A modified toxin would be easy enough to create; the trick would be spreading it around. A crop duster wouldn't do it—it would take a better method than that. How could someone do it?”

“Thanks, Gordon—I'll give it some thought.”

Macy walked back across the terminal to the gate and sat down beside her husband again. “How long 'til we board?” she asked.

Donovan closed his own cell phone. “We don't—you do. I'm going back to NC State.”

“What?”

“That was the office. They just heard back from the Legat in Moscow. You know that guy Nick asked you to look into?”

“Pasha Semenov.”

“Well, get this—he's Yuri Semchenko's godson.”

41

W
here's Callie?”

Alena jumped. Kathryn had managed to walk right up behind her in the tomato fields without being detected. She glared down at Ruckus snoozing at her feet. “Some watchdog you are.”

“Alena—where is my daughter?”

“She's around here somewhere.”

“Where?”

Alena raised both hands overhead and clapped twice. A few seconds later there was the sound of laughter and trampling feet, and Phlegethon came galloping up the row with Callie clinging to her back. The dog came to a stop beside her master, but Callie just rocked and kicked her legs to try to make the dog go again.

Kathryn looked at Alena. “Do you let her do this?”

“She loves it. She'd do it all day if I'd let her.”

“What happens if she falls off?”

“I suppose she'll dust herself off and get back on again—a pretty good life lesson if you ask me.”

She looked at Alena's left hand; Alena was holding a handful of cotton rags torn into long strips. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You're tying up my tomato plants, aren't you?”

“I just saw a couple hanging down and I thought maybe it would help.”

“Thank you. That was kind of you.”

“I pulled a few weeds too.” Alena nodded at the dog by her feet. “Ruckus doesn't even alert when he hears you coming anymore. I guess we're all just one big happy family now.”

Kathryn paused. “You finished searching my fields days ago, didn't you?”

Alena just shrugged.

“Then what are you still doing here?”

“Same thing you are. Waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“You know what.”

Kathryn shook her head. “It looks to me like Nick has made up his mind.”

“No,” Alena said. “Nick doesn't call you because he can't.”

“What do you mean?”

“That PMI Nick gave the Sampson County police—they couldn't find any suspects. There was nobody around to kill your husband during that time, so they think maybe you did it after all. And since you're the one who asked for Nick's help, they think he might have been part of it too.”

“That's insane,” Kathryn said.

“I know—but they're looking into it, so Nick knows he can't talk to you right now. It wouldn't look good to the police.”

“I didn't kill my husband, Alena. I'll admit I was mad enough a couple of times, but I could never do something like that.”

“I believe you.”

“You do?”

“I get mad enough to kill Nick sometimes, but I haven't—yet.”

“Thanks.”

“He hasn't made up his mind, Kathryn. He took me out to dinner, but we ended up talking about you the whole time. He hardly ever calls me either. At least he has an excuse for not talking to you.”

Kathryn looked at Alena's eyes. “You didn't have to tell me this, Alena—you could have let me go on thinking that I was out and you were in. Why did you?”

“I don't know. I guess it's like you said:
A friend would tell you
.”

Kathryn put her arms around Alena's neck. “You know, I'm really going to miss you.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“I'll tell you something else,” Kathryn said. “I'm sick and tired of waiting around for some man to get his act together. Can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Would you mind watching Callie for a couple of hours this evening? I've got a date.”

“With that salesman?”

“That's right—he's taking me to dinner.”

“I thought he was cute.”

Kathryn looked at the darkening sky. “Maybe I should cancel—with this storm coming in and all.”

“You go ahead. We'll be fine here.”

“Well . . . okay. I guess it's a little late to back out on him. It'll just be for a couple of hours.”

“Take your time—and while you're at it, find out if he has a brother. I'm sick of waiting too.”

Just then a tiny winged insect flew into Kathryn's hair. She let out a gasp and brushed at her hair with frenzied strokes until the insect dropped out and flew away. She looked at Alena sheepishly. “Sorry. I told you—I have this thing about bugs.”

“Then you'd better get out of here,” Alena said. “There must be thousands of those things—I've been brushing them off all day. I think those are the bugs your salesman friend sold you.”

Kathryn looked across her fields. She could see hundreds of tiny dark specks slowly rising out of the tomato plants like sparks from a campfire, then suddenly disappearing in the gusting wind.

“I thought these bugs were supposed to eat your bugs,” Alena said. “If this wind keeps up you won't have any left—they'll all end up in your neighbor's cornfields.”

“I'll ask Stefan about it tonight,” Kathryn said. “Look—keep a close eye on Callie, will you? She doesn't like storms. Sudden noises frighten her—thunder really freaks her out.”

“Don't worry about us,” Alena said. “You just have a good time.”

Kathryn turned and headed back to the house. Just as she reached the door an old Chevy pickup pulled into the driveway and stopped. The door opened and Ben Owen got out.

“I think this storm is going to be a bad one,” he called out.

“Talk to your Boss about it,” Kathryn said. “See if he can do anything.”

“The Boss can do anything he wants,” Ben said with a grin, “as he sometimes likes to demonstrate.”

“Do pastors always make calls in weather like this?”

“I'm here on business. I promised you a check, remember?”

“Oh, the CSA shares. Sure—come on in.”

They stepped into Kathryn's parlor and Ben took a seat while Kathryn went to get the paperwork.

“I'll just be a minute,” she called from the back. “Make yourself at home.”

“Take your time. Where's that beautiful little girl of yours?”

“She's out in the fields.”

“Did I take you away from her? Is she all right by herself?”