The Trail to Buddha's Mirror - Don Winslow [59]
“The whole nine yards.”
“—and in return they employ some people we can’t keep on our lists but might want to use from time to time. Naturally, we need to have understanding people in executive positions in these companies, because, as you have demonstrated, the books do not always bear the closest of scrutinies.”
“And these execs might have to okay some frequent and lengthy leaves of absence.”
“That too.”
“But Pendleton isn’t on an authorized leave.”
“Not hardly.”
“So what happened?”
“So what happened is we got greedy. See, we had ourselves this bench company called AgriTech. AgriTech makes pesticides. At the same time, we found it a little difficult to obtain appropriations for research funds. So it seemed like a natural solution to ask AgriTech to carry a little bit of that load for us.”
Neal finished his drink. He didn’t feel any better.
“So you funneled illegal money into AgriTech to conduct unauthorized chemical experiments.”
“Which is another way of putting it.”
“Under the watchful eye of Paul Knox.”
“Probably.”
“And Robert Pendleton was conducting the actual research.”
“Can I freshen that drink for you?”
“So that whole story I was given about chickenshit—”
“Was chickenshit. For all I know, Pendleton might have been working on some sort of super-fertilizer for AgriTech, but for us he was working on herbicides.”
Neal took the fresh glass from Simms. Well, well, well, Doctor Bob, he thought. This does put a different light on things. Good old, kind old Doctor Bob doesn’t make things grow, boys and girls—he makes them die.
“You see,” Simms continued, “if you know how to make something grow, you have a pretty good shot at knowing how to make it not grow. Killing it when it’s still in the ground is a whole lot nicer for all concerned than spraying it with, for example, Agent Orange.”
“It’s real humanitarian work, all right.”
“It is, in fact. Especially if the plant you’re thinking about killing is the poppy plant.”
The next shot of scotch still didn’t provide Neal the soothing warmth he was after. “Okay, so Pendleton gets the Nobel Peace Prize. What’s your beef with him?”
“The woman, of course.”
Of course.
“You’re an art critic?” Neal asked.
“She’s a spy.”
“Oh, come on!”
This is getting too fucking ridiculous, Neal thought. Li Lan a spy? Next thing you know he’ll tell me A. Brian Crowe is an FBI agent.
“She’s a Chinese operative,” Simms insisted. “Look, Pendleton went to this conference of biochemists at Stanford. The opposition covers those things as SOP. We do the same with their meetings. Li Lan—and let’s call her that for convenience, who knows what her real name is—is assigned to snuggle up to one of the scientists. Share a little pillow talk, you know: ‘Who are you? Where do you work? Gee, that’s fascinating, tell me all about it.’ It just gives the opposition an idea about who’s up to what. Usually it doesn’t go beyond that, but little Li hits a home run. The mark falls in love with her.
“She contacts her bosses, who do a little research of their own. Let’s face it, Carey, if a half-baked rent-a-cop like you can tumble AgriTech, Beijing can do the same. They tell her to stick with him, do that voodoo, etcetera, until he’s so pussy-whipped he’ll follow her anywhere.”
“Like to Hong Kong.”
“Like to Hong Kong, where he’s just a midnight boat ride from the PRC. Maybe they grab him, maybe they’ve already turned him and he goes willingly, but whichever … Li Lan gets a promotion and Pendleton gets an eight-by-ten hospitality suite in some Beijing basement and an opportunity to answer all kinds of interesting questions on a daily basis.”
Dinner should be surprises.
“Where did I fit in?” Neal asked.
“No offense, but we used you like a springer spaniel. Your job was to flush them from the bushes and make them run. You did a great