like he had a steel wall around him that kept everyone out. Selena had breached it.
When Harker offered him a civilian job he'd thought he was done shooting at people. He'd lead a normal life. A quiet life. Got that one wrong, he thought. He had no idea what a normal life was anymore. One day at a time.
Nick looked around the room. Everyone was together in Harker's office for the first time in weeks. Even Lamont was back. His mom had named him after Lamont Cranston, the Shadow of radio fame. In the Seals they'd called him Shadow. The nickname had stuck.
Lamont had Ethiopian ancestors. It showed up in his wiry body, all muscles and tendons that stood out like ropes. He had blue eyes and coffee shaded skin. A hard ridge of white and pink scar tissue ran from his forehead across the bridge of his nose down onto his cheek, a souvenir of Iraq. He wore a blue sling and soft cast on his injured arm. It was a big improvement over the rigid plaster he'd sported since Khartoum.
Harker held up a flash drive. It was black and shiny.
"This came yesterday. By UPS, if you can believe it. No explanation, no note."
She was wired. Nick couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her look like that. She kept tapping her damn pen. He wished she would stop. Maybe it was that last drink from the night before, but his headache wouldn't quit.
Harker inserted the drive in a slot on her desk. The big monitor on the wall lit up and showed a windowless room. The walls were featureless. Five men sat at a smooth wooden table. Two had their backs to the camera. The lighting and quality of the video were good, but the field was narrow. Nick figured it had been taken by a concealed camera, maybe in the wall.
One of the men facing the camera was in his 60s, elegant, immaculate in a dark suit that signaled money and power. His shirt gleamed with the look only a five hundred dollar tailored shirt can achieve. He wore a tie that had probably come from the same place as the shirt. His hair was silver, perfect, sculpted by an artist.
Wendell Lodge, Director of Central Intelligence.
From the back, one of the men they couldn't see seemed vaguely familiar, but Nick couldn't place it. The other wore civilian clothes and a close haircut. He had a military feel about him. Something in the way he sat. Lodge was talking. The audio was unintelligible.
Harker said, "The audio clears up in a moment. The man to Lodge's left is Harold Dansinger. You all know who Dansinger is?"
Everyone did. A rich man who'd made his fortune in agriculture, Dansinger was a major force behind genetically altered foods. Grains were his mainstay. Wheat. Rice. Corn. Barley. Millet. The bread grains and basic foods of most of the world.
Carter had seen ads for Dansinger's products. They showed him smiling under a trademark white Stetson, his hand stretched out toward golden fields of corn rolling in green rows to the horizon. A few happy bluebirds glided in a cheerful sunlit sky. Homey letters spelled out "Hal Dansinger , The Farmer's Friend." Below that the ads read "Dansinger Enterprises: Putting American Food on the Tables of the World."
Nick pictured the ad in his mind. He thought Dansinger looked like a used car salesman who'd just sold another clunker for a nice profit.
"I wouldn't touch his food with a pole," Selena said. "He engineers his products to destroy natural competition. Once you plant Dansinger's rice or corn, that's all you can grow."
"What's Lodge talking about?" Ronnie asked.
"Wait."
The audio cleared in mid sentence.
"--April. Long range weather forecast is favorable over the Ukraine and Western Russia. Demeter is ready."
"You are sure everything is in place?" Dansinger's voice was dry and without warmth. He was in his late sixties, large boned and raw, weathered from years under the Texas sun.
Lodge answered Dansinger's question. "Yes." He paused. "Before we go on, I'd like to make sure we are all in agreement."
One of the men at the table stood. "I am not.
When Harker offered him a civilian job he'd thought he was done shooting at people. He'd lead a normal life. A quiet life. Got that one wrong, he thought. He had no idea what a normal life was anymore. One day at a time.
Nick looked around the room. Everyone was together in Harker's office for the first time in weeks. Even Lamont was back. His mom had named him after Lamont Cranston, the Shadow of radio fame. In the Seals they'd called him Shadow. The nickname had stuck.
Lamont had Ethiopian ancestors. It showed up in his wiry body, all muscles and tendons that stood out like ropes. He had blue eyes and coffee shaded skin. A hard ridge of white and pink scar tissue ran from his forehead across the bridge of his nose down onto his cheek, a souvenir of Iraq. He wore a blue sling and soft cast on his injured arm. It was a big improvement over the rigid plaster he'd sported since Khartoum.
Harker held up a flash drive. It was black and shiny.
"This came yesterday. By UPS, if you can believe it. No explanation, no note."
She was wired. Nick couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her look like that. She kept tapping her damn pen. He wished she would stop. Maybe it was that last drink from the night before, but his headache wouldn't quit.
Harker inserted the drive in a slot on her desk. The big monitor on the wall lit up and showed a windowless room. The walls were featureless. Five men sat at a smooth wooden table. Two had their backs to the camera. The lighting and quality of the video were good, but the field was narrow. Nick figured it had been taken by a concealed camera, maybe in the wall.
One of the men facing the camera was in his 60s, elegant, immaculate in a dark suit that signaled money and power. His shirt gleamed with the look only a five hundred dollar tailored shirt can achieve. He wore a tie that had probably come from the same place as the shirt. His hair was silver, perfect, sculpted by an artist.
Wendell Lodge, Director of Central Intelligence.
From the back, one of the men they couldn't see seemed vaguely familiar, but Nick couldn't place it. The other wore civilian clothes and a close haircut. He had a military feel about him. Something in the way he sat. Lodge was talking. The audio was unintelligible.
Harker said, "The audio clears up in a moment. The man to Lodge's left is Harold Dansinger. You all know who Dansinger is?"
Everyone did. A rich man who'd made his fortune in agriculture, Dansinger was a major force behind genetically altered foods. Grains were his mainstay. Wheat. Rice. Corn. Barley. Millet. The bread grains and basic foods of most of the world.
Carter had seen ads for Dansinger's products. They showed him smiling under a trademark white Stetson, his hand stretched out toward golden fields of corn rolling in green rows to the horizon. A few happy bluebirds glided in a cheerful sunlit sky. Homey letters spelled out "Hal Dansinger , The Farmer's Friend." Below that the ads read "Dansinger Enterprises: Putting American Food on the Tables of the World."
Nick pictured the ad in his mind. He thought Dansinger looked like a used car salesman who'd just sold another clunker for a nice profit.
"I wouldn't touch his food with a pole," Selena said. "He engineers his products to destroy natural competition. Once you plant Dansinger's rice or corn, that's all you can grow."
"What's Lodge talking about?" Ronnie asked.
"Wait."
The audio cleared in mid sentence.
"--April. Long range weather forecast is favorable over the Ukraine and Western Russia. Demeter is ready."
"You are sure everything is in place?" Dansinger's voice was dry and without warmth. He was in his late sixties, large boned and raw, weathered from years under the Texas sun.
Lodge answered Dansinger's question. "Yes." He paused. "Before we go on, I'd like to make sure we are all in agreement."
One of the men at the table stood. "I am not.
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